


Breathe Easy

by DrSpazz



Series: The Mind of a Sociopath [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anorexia, Anorexic Sherlock, Anxiety, Bulimia, Cutting, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Gay, M/M, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicidal Sherlock, anxious sherlock, bulimic sherlock, sherlock recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrSpazz/pseuds/DrSpazz
Summary: Sequel to "I Am Sher-Locked Up"Sherlock and John navigate recovery and test the waters of their newfound relationship, and Sherlock will have to learn to let go of the darkness he clutches so close to him.***TW: self harm, eating disorders, suicide, etc. All the stuff that was in my last book***





	1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock_

Things were so different now.

They were drastically different, but somehow all the same. Every day he and John interview potential clients, almost every day they are running the streets of London, hand in hand, chasing taxis and criminals and running from the boredom that threatened to overtake the detective.

But when they got home, when no one could see, things changed. Instead of sitting in their respective chairs, they would cuddle up on the couch--Sherlock usually in some wildly uncomfortable position and insisting he was fine--and John would drink tea and absentmindedly fiddle with his boyfriend's curly dark locks. They would chat, Sherlock mumbling incoherently as he slipped into sleep, his neck aching in the morning as he realized John had stayed by his side the entire night. A good morning kiss was to be expected, and then the normal started once more. It was an exhausting whiplash effect that Sherlock thrived on.

But some things never change, no matter the circumstance.

Sherlock had just finished having breakfast with John, their hands interlocking on top of the table as Sherlock nibbled on his toast that he never finished. 

And now he was in the bathroom, blood running down his arms in a sticky crimson river.

He doesn't even know why he's still doing it. He's not particularly anguished at the moment, and his heart was still buzzing in his chest as a result of the slow kiss they had shared after breakfast, the taste of John's black coffee still on his tastebuds.

So why is he here, once again, breaking promises with every slash of the blade?

"Habit, I suppose," Sherlock murmurs as he washes the blood down the sink in an orangey stream. He bandages his arms and walks out of the bathroom.

John is standing right outside the bathroom door, stumbling back when Sherlock opens the door in his face.

The detective narrows his eyes, "What were you doing?"

John gives Sherlock a look. "You know what. I'm supposed to wait by the bathroom every time you go within an hour of eating."

The taller man inhales through his nose, annoyed. "I hardly ate anything, how am I--"

"Rules are rules, mate." John states definitively, giving Sherlock an irritating fake smile.

"If I kiss you, will you stop making that horrific face?" Sherlock says with a smile, trying to distract John.

John rolls his eyes, "This is my face. I'm not making any faces, Sherl."

Sherlock pretends to consider, making a fake frown. "Oh really? I guess it's no use trying then--"

"Come here, you stupid git," John laughs, stretching up and pulling Sherlock down to his level, kissing the man gently.

Sherlock kisses back, of course, but he can't stop the little arrow of guilt niggling at him. 

The detective cups the side of his flatmate's face, one hand resting on the back of his neck. John grasps Sherlock's left wrist--dangerously close to discovering the new cuts made moments before--and Sherlock exhales slightly in pain, but  hopes John doesn't notice.

"Okay, I think I have to get to work..." John murmurs into his boyfriend's lips, but makes no move to leave.

Sherlock casually snakes his arm back to his side, clutching his sleeve cuffs. "Yeah, you'd better...wouldn't want to get you fired..."

John sighs, drawing back. "One day I'd like to come into some money and stop working. Buy a nice house, not an apartment. It could be ours. Just yours and mine together. It would be really nice." 

Sherlock chuckles softly, "I think I speak for both of us when I say London is my home."

John laughs, shaking his head, "Yeah, I think you're right. I don't think I could ever leave Baker Street even if I wanted to."

John's face turns serious and Sherlock's heart stalls.

"Hey, just in case you've forgotten, I'm checking today. Your wrists. Legs. Wherever you usually...do..it." John says, trailing off as he looks at Sherlock's slightly puffier left sleeve. Sherlock thanks the gods that John wasn't observant enough to figure most things out.

Sherlock stiffens as the realization hits him. Fuck! How could he have forgotten today was check day?! He might have been able to disguise the cuts with makeup or something if they were several days old, but he knew there was no way to cover up the fresh, deep ones that itched on his forearm as he panicked.

He nods, trying his hardest not to let his expression betray him.

John looks at him skeptically, biting his cheek and cocking his head in a way that made Sherlock's insides feel funny.

"You do know there's an alternative to this, right?" He says slowly, as if he was presenting an obvious option that Sherlock had elected to ignore.

The detective's heart jackrabbits in relief, "Really? What is it?"

"You come forward and tell me without me having to harangue you."

Sherlock snorted, trying to make light of the situation, "Well that's not going to happen."

John's face takes on a pained expression, his eyebrows creasing adorably. 

"Sherlock..."

"I'm joking, John. Try not to choke on the stick shoved up your arse." Sherlock says, a little more coldly than he meant to.

"Sherlock, is there something you're not telling me? You're being more of an arse than usual." John says, failing to conceal the hurt in his eyes.

Sherlock takes a breath, teetering on the edge of indecision. John was going to find out tonight anyway, but there was the matter of pride that Sherlock had too much of.

"Never mind. I'm just going to check now, okay? Roll up your sleeves, mate." John says certainly, as if he knew Sherlock would obey.

"No." Sherlock answers definitivley. "I'll let you tonight. That wasn't the deal."

John frowns, and then unexpectedly shoots his arm out and grabs Sherlock's forearm and squeezes hard, earning a grunt of pain from the detective.

"Just what I thought. Sherlock, what are we going to do?" John says plaintively.

"That was a dirty trick, John. Don't ever do that again." Sherlock mutters, glaring at his boyfriend.

John scoffs and looks off the the side, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, if you hadn't cut yourself in the first place then I wouldn't have to do this. Don't act like it's my fault you do a shitty job of concealing how hurt you are. We need trust, Sherl. That's the number one thing of any relationship, and we've been scrimping along without it, but we can't go on like this. How long ago did you cut?"

Sherlock looks down, his ears burning. "Approximately seven minutes ago."

John's mouth parts in disbelief, his eyes shining, sending another arrow of guilt through the detective. 

"Christ, Sherlock..." he whispers, staring at the ground in defeat.

Sherlock's face burns with shame, but is determined to keep up his cocky, arrogant façade. "Oh, do get over it John, I'm not dead so I think you should be grateful."

John jerks his head up, his eyes turned to ice, "I should be grateful? Grateful you're not fucking dead?!"

Sherlock realizes his mistake and tries to backpedal, but John balls up his fist and looks as if he is about to swing, so Sherlock falls silent, readying himself for a blow.

"God, Sherl, if I didn't love you so much I'd have a go at you right now." John says through clenched teeth, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

"Sherlock, I am forever grateful you're not dead. Ever since the Fall, I've said a prayer of gratefulness every day that you're not dead, and ever since you tried to kill yourself I've been praying you won't be taken from me ever again. But I'm never going to settle for just 'not dead'. I need you. I need you to be okay. Please promise me. Promise me you'll at least attempt to talk to me before you mark your beautiful self up." John says shakily, his breathing uneven and his eyes watering with tears unshed.

Sherlock nods, unsure of himself. No one had even come close to caring to him like John did, and the lack of experience in the department left Sherlock more confused than he felt he had any right to be.

"I promise I will try." Sherlock amends, his voice tight and his breathing shallow.

John sighs with relief, running a hand through his greying hair. "Okay. That's good enough for now. Christ, I really am running late," he mumbles, glancing at his watch. "I'll be checking the severity of the wounds later, Sherl, I have to go now. I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on you--don't argue with me, Sherlock, not after what you've just done," he says sternly when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, "--so just...be good, okay?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches and he rolls his eyes, "Yes, Daddy." He says mockingly, then his face freezes when he realizes the implications.

John's mouth parts, but he ignores it for Sherlock's sake.

"Okay, well...I love you, okay?" John says, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss the taller man gently.

"I love you too, John."


	2. Staying Strong

_herlock_

 

"For cripe's sake, Sherlock, are you ready or not? We've got plans, mate." 

John's voice rings through the flat, a sound that Sherlock has come to love. They were supposed to go out to eat, the transparency of John's intentions irritating the detective. He had found a packet in John's desk that had information about dealing with eating disorders, and one of the tips was to go out on a fun trip that involved food, but did not revolve around it.

"Keep your pants on, John, I'm looking for my phone," Sherlock says irritably, trying to hide the scale that he had been tampering with. He heard Jonn's impatient footsteps and just chucked it under their bed, making a mental note to deal with it later.

"Hello, beautiful," John says as Sherlock whirls to face him. "Ready to go?"

Sherlock's cheek twitches with irritation; he quite hated nicknames, especially ones that weren't true. But he loved John, so he was willing to endure for his sake.

Sherlock smiles easily, and in the back of his mind it occurs to him that he is scarily good at pretending he's okay.

"Don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going?" Sherlock says, knowing the answer before he spoke.

"Nope. It's a surprise." John says, a grin on his face.

"Wonderful," Sherlock says sulkily.

"Sherl, mate, maybe if you weren't so sarcastic you'd have more friends," John mutters, a smile betraying him.

"I have you, and that's enough." Sherlock's mouth turns up a little as he says this.

John turns around suddenly, pulling the detective into a long, desperate kiss that left Sherlock dazed.

"Any particular reason for that gem of a kiss?" Sherlock says breathlessly.

"I just want you to know how much I love you." John says wistfully. 

Sherlock nods, suddenly trepidatious. 

"Well, we better get going. You're really going to like where I'm bringing you." John says.

 

***

 

_John_

 

John wanted nothing more than for Sherlock to be okay. Unfortunately, old habits die hard.

They had gone to ride the London Eye, which Sherlock had never been on. They managed to get a car all to themselves, and let's just say John had no doubt that Sherlock loved him.

But now they were seated in a booth in a local restaurant, and locked in a battle of wills.

"Sherlock. You've got to eat, love." John says, hating how pleading his voice came out.

Sherlock says nothing, staring at the untouched fruit salad he had ordered.

"It's fruit, Sherl. I'm not asking you to eat a disgustingly American cheeseburger." 

Sherlock's mouth twitches in what could be a smile, but remains silent.

"How about this: every bite you eat, I'll give you a kiss. Sound fair?" John says, his mouth turning up at the corner in a ghost of a smile.

"Okay." Sherlock finally says, but doesn't move.

"You've got to pick up the fork, mate. I'm sure your parents taught you how to use one." John jokes, hoping to lighten the mood some.

Sherlock glares at John, but picks up his fork and spears a pineapple chunk, bringing it towards his mouth and chewing slowly.

"All right, that's one. Next time a bigger bite would be better."

"I'm trying, John. Let me be." Sherlock says quietly.

John feels a pang of guilt, but says nothing.

Everntually, the fruit salad has been eaten and John promised to pay Sherlock for his troubles when they got home.

Later, when both men were curled up in the two twin sized beds they shoved together, John turns over to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Hey, Sherl..." He whispers softly, trying to convey his emotions through his eyes.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock says sleepily, his eyelids drooping.

"I just want to say I'm really proud of you today. I know it's hard, and I know you don't want to, but I think you really have a shot at getting better. I love you. Always remember that." John says, reaching out to stroke Sherlock's cheek, the detective leaning into his touch.

"I love...I love you too...John..." Sherlock mumbles before he drops off into a deep sleep, the love of his life by his side.

 

 


	3. Cold Hearts

_John_

 

John paces the flat, sick with worry. Sherlock had left two hours ago after a particularly loud argument about those set of scales Sherlock tampered with.

_"Am I the only one who wants you to get better, Sherlock? Because it seems a little that way right now!" John yelled, running his hands through his graying hair and fighting the lump in his throat._

_"Of course you are John, it's not like I'm trying or anything. It's not like I'm swallowing every bite you shove in my face, it's not like I've been clean for two weeks, it's certainly nothing to do with the fact that I haven't once thrown up in a week, no, none of that mean anything at all!" The detective shouts at equal volume to John, his eyes sparking with anger as he waved his skinny arms, slightly swaying at the motion._

_"Look at you, Sherlock, you can barely stand up straight! What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm not trained for this, I don't have all the answers, so what the FUCK can I do? I'll do it, I'll do anything for you, but I don't know what to do! Help me, Sherl. Help me help you." John finishes quietly, lowering his head so his boyfriend couldn't see his tears._

John can't stand the thought of something happening to Sherlock. He had asked if Mrs. Hudson knew what to do, and she said just to wait for him to come back. John checks his watch: 6:47pm. Sherlock had been gone since 4:30 and hasn't answered any of John's calls or texts, not even to say that he wasn't dead or dying at the moment.

John makes a split second decision and grabs his coat and strides out the door, his face set in stone as he searches for his friend.

 

***

 

_Sherlock_

 

God, it's cold.

Sherlock had forgotten to grab his coat after he argument with John and was paying sorely for it. 

The fact that he had next to no body fat wasn't helping either, but the doorway he sat in helped shelter him from the -12° windchill at least.

The argument plays over and over in Sherlock's head, his eyes screwing shut as he tried to block out the voices bouncing around in his head.

_"God, I wish I was dead." Sherlock muttered, looking away from John's gaze as he blinked away tears._

_John was speechless for a moment, but regained composure, "Really...? Even now, even after us...? Why?"_

_Sherlock's nostrils_ _flared with fury at this statement, "Yes, John, even now! Years and years and YEARS of emotional trauma and pain and depression don't just go away because I met a guy! It's not your job to fix me with a few kisses and a loving hand. I love you, I really do, but you can't just expect me to just recover in a few weeks just because you're stupid enough to fall for me! I still wish I was dead, I still itch to cut again, I still hate the taste of food and I still have depression despite you swooping in_ _and saving me from myself! Why can't you SEE that?!"_

_John takes a step back, visibly hurt and tearful. Sherlock feels a pang of guilt in his gut, and runs out the door._

"I wonder if he's looking for me..." Sherlock wondered aloud. He knew that John would tear apart the world to find him, but there was that nagging voice in his head trying to convince him that he wasn't worth it.

The detective's head started to droop, fatigue and the cold getting the better of him. Without realizing it, Sherlock fell asleep in the snow.

 

***

 

_Mycroft_

 

"Are you _sure_ he's not here?" John asked pleadingly to Mycroft. 

"Yes, I'm sure! I don't know where he is, but he's not here." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation and guilt. How could he not know where is own brother was?

"Bull," John states, "I know you keep tabs on him. You know where everyone is."

Mycroft sighed. "John. I stopped monitoring him a while back. I thought that now that he was with you, things would get better. Obviously I'm wrong, but that doesn't change the fact that I have no earthly clue where he went."

John runs his hands through his hair for the millionth time today, as if his follicles held the answer to his problem. "Well...I guess we'll just have to do it the old fashioned way and go out and look."

 

***

 

_Sherlock_

 

_"I can't believe you."_

_John looked at the ceiling, trying to collect himself._

_Sherlock stayed silent, barely breathing._

_"Again? How'd you do it? I've locked up every sharp thing in this flat and you're still cutting?"_

_"Just because you make it harder for me to injure myself doesn't mean I won't. I just have to be more...creative," Sherlock said quietly._

_"What about this: instead of hiding yourself away and marking up your body, you come to me and we can work it out together? I'm not saying it'll fix things forever, but it'll be one less scar on your body for every time you want to break." John said gently, trying not to let his boyfriend know how upset he was._

_"I...I'm trying, John. Usually I don't even think before I cut, but now all I think of is you. Every time I hurt myself I think of you. How I'm breaking your heart, how you don't deserve the hell im putting you through, how useless I am and how much stress I'm putting on you. I'm sorry. I'm still not good enough."  Sherlock inhaled deeply, putting his face in his piano hands._

_"Can you at least come to me when you think of me? I don't care if you're mid-slice. I want you to come to me as soon as you realize you're hurting me at the same time you're hurting yourself. Please." John said, almost beggingly._

_"Okay."_

Suddenly, Sherlock wakes with a start as he feels hands on his shoulders shaking him. He opens his eyes blearily and squinted at the two forms in front of him.

As his vision focused, he made out John and Mycroft crouching beside him, attacking him with a barrage of questions.

"Are you hurt?"

"God, it's freezing out, how long have you been out here?"

"Can you hear me at all?"

"Jesus, John, you're a doctor, try and see if he's oka--"

"I'm fine," Sherlock cuts them off, staggering to his feet only to collapse again, John doing his best to catch him, and Sherlock could see concern on his face at how light he was.

"I'm fine...I just fell asleep...sorry..." Sherlock mumbles, his mouth dry and cottony. He could barely feel his extremities.

"Come on, let's just get you home."

 

***

 

_John_

 

John looks over at the couch where Sherlock lay, making sure he was still okay. A cup of hot tea sat on the coffe table in front of him, half empty.

John moved over to sit next to Sherlock, eliciting a grunt from Sherlock when he sat on his feet.

"You all right?" John asks quietly, stretching himself out so that he was pressed lengthwise against the detective. 

Sherlock mumbles something, but was muffled by the pillow he had shoved his face into.

"What?" John asks, leaning closer.

"I'm sleeping," Sherlock said, lifting his head momentarily. "Just...just leave me be for a little while. I'm still cold."

"All right." John says, standing to get up before his boyfriend inturrupted,

"No. You stay. Just don't talk."

"Okay Sherl." John says with a smile, laying back down and pulling a blanket over them, John grunting in discomfort on the tiny couch.

"I'll just say this, and then I'll stop talking," John murmurs into Sherlock's ear, "no matter how far you run, no matter how many times you relapse, no matter how much you hate yourself, I will always love you, okay?"

"Okay John. Me too. I promise."

John couldn't have been happier.


	4. Hidden Scars

_Sherlock_

 

"What do you think we should do today?" John asks for the fourth time, lazily tracing hearts on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grunts noncommittaly before mumbling, "This is fine. I like doing this."

John had to agree. The two were cuddling in bed, watching the morning sun filter through the dust, turning the air alive with flecks of gold. Sherlock's head rests on the crook of John's neck, tickling his flatmate with his breaths. Sherlock 's hand sits on John's chest under his T-shirt, relishing the feeling of his heartbeat on his palm. He moves his hand to John's stomach, caressing his thumb over his boyfriend's skin.

"You sure you don't want a case or anything?" John asks, shifting uncomfortably as the detective's thumb ghosts over a patch of skin that was textured differently than the rest of him.

Sherlock is momentarily confused at his boyfriend's sudden discomfort until he feels his stomach again, making out raised lines crisscrossing his midsection.

"Sherlock--" John says, his voice slightly strained, sucking in his stomach and moving a few inches away so that the other man's hand doesn't touch him.

"John." Sherlock says, raising his head and looking he other man in the eye. John's gaze dropped as he pushed Sherlock's hand away from his stomach.

"Leave it be," John says, almost pleadingly.

"No," Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing. "What are those?"

John's face turns red with shame, refusing to answer.

Sherlock pulls the blankets down, his boyfriend protesting as he tried to keep the sheets up, but finally relenting as Sherlock yanked the blankets away and pushed up his shirt.

John inhales and covers his face with his hands as the detective stared at his stomach.

Thick white scars crisscrosses his stomach, some barely as thick as a pencil line and some that looked dangerously deep. They looked to be several months old, some as old as five years ago. Others looked as recent as a year ago. Sadness fills Sherlock, threatening to crush his ribcage, but is soon replaced by anger.

"When?" 

John says nothing.

" _When,_ John?" Sherlock says louder.

"When do you bloody think, Sherlock? What could possibly move me to do this?" John says, sitting up and pulling his shirt down, balling the fabric up in his fists.

"I don't know, that's why I ask--" Sherlock replies angrily before freezing in shock.

The Reichenbach Fall.

"John..." Sherlock says sorrowfully, momentarily consumed with guilt and self-hatred. "I didn't know..."

John scoffs, "You didn't know what? That your death would kill me too? That I didn't want to live, let alone take care of myself and keep myself well? You were too busy playing the hero and saving the world to realize what this did to me."

"That's not fair, John, I never thought--"

"You never thought that I cared about you? You never thought that I would resort to cutting myself to escape from the pain of losing you? Compared to what the Fall did to me, these scars are nothing, _nothing_ compared to losing you."

Sherlock is silent, emotions bubbling and broiling, too hot to sort out which was guilt and which was anger and which was sorrow.

"I'm sorry. You know I am."

John scoffs again, "I know you are. But I know you'd do it again, and sorry doesn't cut it."

"I don't know what you want me to say, John. It hurt me too, okay? How do you think it felt to watch you fall apart? How do you think it felt that there was _nothing I could do to help you?"_

"Christ, Sherlock, don't do this. Don't you dare try to pin this on me. Don't you _dare_ try and tell me that my hurting myself was unjustified. You've been doing it for years because of how hurt you feel, and same goes for me. I stopped doing it, okay? I stopped cutting soon after you came back. I promise you I did." John says, his voice dropping in volume until that last part of what he said was whispered.

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and ran his hands through his ebony curls. "Fine. I'll let it go. I'm sorry, again. You know why I had to do it, and I know it wasn't fair for either of us. I'm glad you stopped. I'm glad you had more strength than I do."

"You're plenty strong, mate, you're just focusing your efforts on the wrong things." John says with a hint of a smile.

"How so?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"Well, I don't know, how else would you manage to hurt yourself for so many years when everyone was fighting to keep you from doing it? How else could you manage to do the things you do to yourself and still stay sane?" 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully, chewing on the statement. He supposed John was right; he certainly hadn't thought of it that way until now. 

"Now, I think we actually need to do something today, but afterwards we can do whatever you want." John says, changing the subject and smiling.

"Anything I want?" Sherlock says suggestively, sniggering when John's eyes flew wide.

"Yeah sure whatever mate." John laughs, looking down and shaking his head as his face filled with warmth. 

Sherlock leans over and hesitantly kisses John's forehead, relishing the way his boyfriend shyly smiled as if it were the first time all over again.

And in a way, it was.

 


	5. Getting Through

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock tries not to scowl as he steps on the scale John borrowed from the hospital. It was a blind scale, with the box and reader connected by a cord held by John, meaning that the only person who could see his weight was John.

John looks at the reader, his expression unreadable. Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep him from asking what the number was, but he winces when he chomps down on the skin, raw from being chewed on constantly.

"Well, all right then," John says, scribbling numbers into a notepad that he kept hidden from the detective.

"Can I..." Sherlock cringes at how desperate his voice sounds, "can I...see it? Please?"

John eyes Sherlock before scoffing and shaking his head, "No, of course not. I don't want you getting spun up over a few numbers portraying your relationship with gravity."

"So it's gone up, hasn't it?" Sherlock says snappily.

"I don't think I ever--"

"It has. Otherwise you would tell me. How much?" Sherlock asks, fully aware of how crazy he sounds.

"So what if you have, Sherly? That's a good thing, you know." John says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Well...yeah, I suppose, for you, but not for me." Sherlock grits his teeth, annoyed at himself for coming to pieces for a damn number.

"It is good for you. You were half dead when we started, Sherl, anything's better than that, mate." John says kindly, smiling the way he did when he was looking at the detective, sending a rush of affection through Sherlock despite the circumstances.

"I just don't want to do this anymore," Sherlock sighs defeatedly, then rushes to clarify as he sees the alarm on his boyfriend's face, "I mean, this whole recovery thing. I want to get better, I do, but I wish it were easier. I would love nothing more than to be able to snap my fingers and get better. Not all this drama with the scales and the wrist checking and having to wake you up in the middle of the night because I had a flashback."

John looks at Sherlock thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, yeah, that's all I want for you too. More than anything, I want you to be okay. But as you said before, 30 years of hating yourself and trying to destroy yourself isn't going to leave in a few weeks. You can do it. I know you can."

"And what if I can't?"

John shrugs, "If you can't, then I'll just work harder. Nothing will stop me from getting you help, Sherl. If I can't do it then I'll find someone who can. I love you, okay?"

Sherlock nods, processing. God, how he loved this man. Who else could put up with his mental state, the constant battle of wills and resolve over something as minute as an extra bite of toast or a quick flash of the wrist? Sherlock knew he was extraordinarily lucky to have John for himself.

_But is he really yours? Does he love you, or does he see you as another's "patient", just someone to coddle and fix and send on their  way without a second glance? Just another soul to pity, just another specimen to dissect and patch up and—_

Sherlock grits his teeth, willing the voices to be silent. But what if they were right?

"Hey...John?" He asks hesitantly.

"Yeah?" John looks up from where he was putting away the scale, concern emerging from his gorgeous eyes.

"Do you...do you love me?" Sherlock asks, hating how small and uncertain he sounds. Like some schoolgirl waiting for an answer on his "do you love me? Check yes or no" note.

John laughs a little, his smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes in a way that made Sherlock want to kiss them.

"Well, yeah, I hope so, or this would be a little awkward." John jokes, but then turns serious when he sees Sherlock's expression. "Of course I love you, Sherly. Why do you ask?"

Sherlock takes a hesitant breath, unsure of how to procceed. This whole boyfriend thing was way too complicated for Sherlock's liking, but at the same time he thrived on it. 

"Well...I don't know, it sounds silly, but...how could you love me? I haven't the faintest why someone such as yourself would fancy someone like me."

"Well, what is someone like you? There's no one like you, Sherl, no one quite as beautiful, no one quite as enticing as you. I fell in love with you. I fell in love with everything about you, mate. If you had an extra five hours I could explain it all to you, but I doubt I'd be able to get it all out. Whatever the voices may tell you, they are wrong. I love you, okay?"

Sherlock smiles warmly, soothed by his words but still anxious that he might be lying.

"Okay. I love you too."

 

***

 

_John_

 

"How's the most beautiful man in the world today?" Sherlock says, gliding into the room and pressing a kiss to John's greying strands. 

"I don't know Sherlock, how are you?" John says, not looking up from his newspaper.

"F-fine." Sherlock replies, his voice cracking as he straightens up, his cheeks stained red as he tries to hide the glow with his mug of tea.

John smiles warmly to himself. He could tell today would be a good day.

"So what are your plans for this evening, beautiful?" John says, somewhat teasingly, darkening the shade of red on his boyfriends face.

"I, um, well, I don't, well--" Sherlock squeaks out, adorably discombobulated.

"I'll take that as a 'I'm free, John, and I'll do whatever you'd like me to'" John laughs, reaching out and stroking Sherlock's hand.

"Sure! Sure..." Sherlock says, rushing back to his room.

 

***

 

**_~later that evening~_ **

 

"John. John. John. John. John." 

Sherlock was draped over John's shoulder as he worked on his computer, beating his head against his boyfriend's in time to his name being called.

John continues to ignore him until he can't resist, turning to kiss him on the cheek, earning a smile from the detective as he flops down on the couch, as his own face blushes.

"You said we'd do something tonight," Sherlock whines, and John catches a glimpse of the petulant younger brother he once was.

"We are, my impatient one, just relax a bit," John says with a smile, "I just have to make you wait so that if he evening falls flat then you'll still enjoy it because you had to wait."

"That's piss poor psychology, Watson." Sherlock grumbles, sliding lower on the couch, his gangly limbs splayed out like spider legs.

"Okay, I think we're ready," John says, making Sherlock look up at him with a silly half smile on his face.

"First, we need to watch the entirety of Lord of the Rings--you'll love Bilbo, I know you will--with snacks of your choice, of course, and then we can take a shower together--I heard that was fun, never tried it before myself, but we can try--and by then it'll be well past midnight so we can go to sleep satisfyingly exhausted."

 "That would be _lovely,"_ Sherlock smiles, "just like you."

It's John's turn to blush, but he gets up and piles blankets and pillows on the ratty couch in the den and snuggled into Sherlock.

He feels fingers loop through his own as Sherlock shifts to lay he head on John's lap, the latter stroking and playing with the former's dark curls.

"Bilbo looks like someone I know, but I can't place it," Sherlock mumbles distractedly, leaning into John's touch.

"Just watch the movie, mate," John chides.

After the movie was over, the two strip down and enter the shower, steam enveloping them like a blanket as they press together, bathed in hot water and love.

John has to admit, showering with someone is much better than showering alone, even if there was no sex or anything suggestive happening.

John tries not to look at the scars decorating Sherlock's body, but he soon finds himself tracing the wounds, spanning from shoulder to mid knee, with a few on his calves.

"This would be a preferable alternative to wrist checking," Sherlock says, covering John's hand with his own spindly piano hands, in turn feeling John's scars on his stomach, a wistful look on his face.

"I could work with that," John murmurs, happy to see that his boyfriend's ribs were less visible, and traced his hip bones, sending a shudder through Sherlock.

The two sit in the shower and hold each other until the hot water runs cold.

Then they bundle into bed, each wearing the others sweatpants; John's riding high on Sherlock's long legs, Sherlock's tangling around John's feet.

"I love you...." Sherlock mumbles as he drifts off to sleep, his head nestled into the crook of John's neck, tickling his neck with his exhales.

"I love you too, Sherlock." John says, eyelids heavy with sleep.

The two sleep peacefully through the night, each dreaming of the others lips.


	6. How to Save a Life

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock tried not to wince as the needle pierced his broken skin.

It's funny, isn't it? He can flay his flesh to the bone and not bat an eye, but the sting of antiseptic and the prick of a suture needle have him squirming.

"God, Sherlock, I wish you had come to me sooner." John says wistfully, gently tugging on the needle, pulling his flesh back together.

Sherlock exhaled irritably, irked at his boyfriend's comment. Didn't he know how hard it was for him to leave that bathroom, to put down the blade and wake him up, blood still dripping down his arm as he shamefully shook John awake?

"I'm glad you came when you did, don't get me wrong, but it still kills me to see you doing this." John says quietly.

"I'm trying my best, John. Please keep that in mind." Sherlock says, equally as quiet.

The cuts on his arm were mostly superficial, but there were three that required stitches and one that Sherlock had to beg John to not have him go to hospital. John had said the only reason why he didn't bundle Sherlock into the car and take him there was because the cut had narrowly missed the two major arteries and only nicked one tendon.

"It's kind of odd for me to say this, Sherl, but...this is almost scientific, the way you do this," John says, most likely to ease the tension out of the air, "I mean, you'd have to have surgeon hands to cut this deep but not cause permanent damage."

"Practice makes perfect, John, as you can see." Sherlock retorts, suddenly feeling defensive. Why should he have to justify his methods of destroying himself? Why can't John just stitch him up when needed and say no more about it?

"Because that's not how recovery works, mate." John says softly, patiently.

He didn't realize he had said this aloud, but he's almost glad he did. There was some small part of him that enjoyed this. It made him feel safe and loved, in a way. It let him know that someone cared, that someone would be there to love and pick up the pieces he shattered himself into. He would never say this, of course, but deep down, that's how he looked at this. Not as an invasion of privacy, not as a punishment, but as an act of love. It was a rather strange way of looking at it, but Sherlock chose to think this way. 

"Well, that's done," John says, tugging on the last stitch, making Sherlock wince. "Sorry mate."

"It's fine." Sherlock mumbles, yanking his sleeve down and making to move before John stopped him.

"Hey. No. Don't walk away just yet. Can you talk to me, a little? Please?" John asks, sadness clouding his eyes and tiredness lining his face.

"I don't really want to." Sherlock says, fulling aware of how much of a petulant child he appeared to be. "Not right now, at least. I'm tired."

John nods, emotion flashing briefly across his face, too quickly for Sherlock to name.

"Okay then. Come back to bed. We'll talk in the morning." John says, rising and gripping the detective's hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

Sherlock nods, purely grateful for this man, this gift he never knew he would recieve.

The two walk tiredly to the back bedroom.

 

***

 

_John_

 

As the doctor traces his hands over the detective, his mind spins with worry. 

Sherlock wasn't recovering. Not nearly fast enough. It was always one step forward three steps back for them. Sure, he was telling him when he was cutting, but not until several deep, concerning lacerations decorated his skin. He was gaining weight, but so incrementally that he was still a skeleton and John didn't know if his body could take the stress he was inflicting on himself. Yes, he was taking his medication, but he purged so often that John very much doubted it was being properly absorbed. Sherlock may think he's recovering, and John wants to think that too, but the truth is that Sherlock is not doing well at all.

But what to do about that? Send him away to a looney bin for a few more weeks? Pump him full of IV nutrients and drug him out of his mind? The most important thing about recovery is honesty and will to change, and John wasn't sure Sherlock had much of either. 

John wasn't a psychologist, he was an army doctor and he knows nothing about the inner workings of the mind; certainly not one as complex as Sherlock's. No one knew what goes on in that head of his. 

John did something he hadn't done in a long time.

He prayed.

_Dear God...please, please help him. Help me help him. If you care at all for Your children...help him_

John felt kind of silly praying--he had never been much of a churchgoing type, but he didn't know what to do now. 

He shifted, moving his arms to encircle Sherlock, who leaned into him and pressed his body against him. He had to protect this man. He had to save him, or find someone who could. 

John was gripped with a sense of urgency. He _HAS_ to help him. John is going to read all he can, talk to anyone who could help, do anything to save this man. He would do his damndest to ensure Sherlock's happiness and safety, and God help whoever stood in his way.

 

 


	7. The First Time

_Sherlock_

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, trembling. 

He was gripped by a nightmare, one of the worst reccuring nightmares he gets.    The other terrors, the sensation of falling; the walls of hospitals, tallies scratched into every surface; those he could handle.

But this one....

_I am standing outside John's window. It's a year after the Fall, and he is staring at the drawer with his gun in it. Blood soaks his shirt, the source of the bleeding unclear but nonetheless terrifying. I'm screaming, because I know what's going to happen. He's going to pick the gun up and kill himself._

_He can't hear me, he can't see me, I'm not even there to him. He picks up the weapon, puts it to his head. He exhales once, twice, and I feel my vocal cords tearing becuase JOHN JOHN JOHN DON'T I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T DO THIS WITHOUT YOU PLEASE STOP JOHN STOP JOHN WATSON I LOVE Y—_

_The gunshot wakes me up, and my skin is on fire._

Sherlock always looks over to the form sleeping beside him, resisting the urge to feel his neck for a pulse, to bring an ear to his mouth, listening for deep, even breaths. His fingers itch for something sharp, something to take the mental pain away and morph it into physical pain. He needs to cut. 

_But do you?_

Sherlock stiffens, all to used to voices in his head. But he relaxes after a moment. This was a voice he recognized. This was John's voice.

_Answer me, Sherlock. Do you really need to?_

"Yes." Sherlock breathes, careful not to wake the real John next to him.

 _Really?_ The voice chuckles a bit, ignoring Sherlock's irritated scoff.

_You've got something better right next to you. Look._

He turns, puzzled. What did that mean? Drugs? John had taken those up.

_No, gimp boy, John. He's right there. He can take the pain away, and not leave a mark on your body. Well, depending on how hard he kisses you._

Sherlock's face flushes at this, despite the fact that no one actually said that. He turns over, his hand wavering hesitantly over his boyfriend's smooth cheek, right over the worry lines that had recently creased his beautiful face.

 _Go on._  John's voice whispers into his right ear, making the detective shiver. _What's he gonna do? Be angry at you for trusting him?_

Sherlock brings his hand down to John's muscular shoulders and touches him lightly, his fingertips gracing the bare skin.

"J--John?" Sherlock says in a throaty whisper. 

John stirs slightly, mumbling "It's okay, it's okay, s'okay..."

Sherlock smiles a bit. John wasn't even awake, but he was caring for him even in his sleep. Sherlock grips his shoulder more firmly, shaking slightly. 

John's eyes fly open, his body tensing as he goes from 0 to 100 in a split second. "What...whassamatter? Sherlock...." his words slur with tiredness.

Sherlock shrinks back, wishing he had just left John to sleep so he can finally cut. "It's just me...are you awake?" _Stupid question._

John turns over onto his side so he faces his boyfriend. Even in the dark, Sherlock is dazzled by the beauty of his soldier.

"Am now. What's the matter, love?" John says gently, his eyes soft and kind. He reaches out to Sherlock and grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly, grounding the detective.

"Just...nothing." Sherlock says, suddenly afraid to say anything that might worry John.

"Don't lie to me, Sherl. You woke me up, so something must be up. What is it? Another nightmare?"

Sherlock nods, his dark hair making a swishing sound against the pillow.

"Do you need to cut?"

Ah. The million dollar question. Sherlock briefly notes that John used the word "need" instead of "want", showing that it was more of an addiction instead of a pastime. Sherlock nods again, and John can feel his hand shaking within his own.

John brings Sherlock closer, pulling his by his elbow and waist, careful not to hurt his still-healing wrists. He wraps an arm over his waist and rests his hand on the detective's right shoulder blade, pressing his palm flat. He bring up his other arm to cup Sherlock's face, their entire bodies pressed up against each other. Sherlock melted into him, savoring the feeling of John's muscular stomach and the warmth soaking into his own stomach. Sherlock rested his head under John's chin, his breaths hot against his neck.

"Is this okay?" John asks quietly, stroking his boyfriend's dark curls, doing his best to still the terrors running rampant in that beautiful head of his.

Sherlock nods once more, not fully trusting his voice. This was better than okay. Slowly, slowly, the need to tear his skin open faded, replaced with the buzzing warmth emanating from John's body. His limbs and eyelids felt heavy with sleepiness, and all he had to do was listen to John's slow, reassuring breaths.

Right before John's breaths slowed into a sleeping rythm, Sherlock speaks up, his voice cracking.

"John?"

John's starts a bit before answering, "Yeah? What's up?"

"How did you..." Sherlock's voice wavers. He wasn't sure how to word his question. "How did you stop?"

"Stop what, love?"

"You know what." He says irritably, but softens his voice, "Stop...cutting. How did you do that?"

John inhales deeply, opening his eyes and shifts so that the hand cupping Sherlock's face is propping him up on the pillow. Sherlock's cheek feels suddenly cold with the warmth of his hand gone.

"I was wondering when you'd ask that question," John comments, "and I suppose I don't really know."

Sherlock's cheek twitches in annoyance. How the hell could he not know? 

"How? How'd you stop? You can't tell me you just up and quit." Sherlock says, his eyes desperate and searching John's face for some tell, an answer to the pain plaguing his life.

"I didn't up and quit. It took me a while. I first wanted to stop after you came back. I didn't feel right doing it when I had my world given back to me. And I knew you'd find out. As selfish as that sounds, I didn't want you to deduce me. So I stopped."

"Just like that?" Sherlock asks.

"No, not just like that. I stopped for a while, then relapsed, then clean for a while, then I relapsed again. I've been clean for about two year and a half years. I managed to stop soon after you came back. It wasn't easy, mind you, but I focused my efforts elsewhere. Taking care of you has kept me busy, and so has the cases. It is dangerous to be alone. Luckily, I'm not alone anymore." John says, his eyes crinkling at the corners and gazing lovingly down at Sherlock, making the detective feel warm inside his chest.

Sherlock nods again, turning this over in his mind. The way John said it, like it was so _easy,_  like switching off a light. He's been at this for 30 years....surely it couldn't be that simple. 

But what if it was? What if the answer was right in front of him, soft blonde eyelashes and worried skin? What if he didn't need to live like this anymore, what if he could be....happy? What then?

Sherlock supposed he knew what Nirvana meant by "I miss the comfort of being sad". He had been so sad for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to not be sad, to not want to tear his skin open and and shoot up with drugs. When he wasn't sad, he was...empty.

"What are you thinking about?" John says, eyes still closed and breathing still deep.

"A lot of things," Sherlock whispers into the darkness.

"Good things or bad things?" John asks, his voice like liquid amber caressing the detective's mind, calming his racing thoughts.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, earning a soft, sleepy smile from his boyfriend.

"Go to sleep. Stop thinking, just for now. Listen," John says, pulling him closer, pressing his hand into the back of his head, pulling Sherlock's head close to his chest. Sherlock marvelled at how perfectly their bodies fit together, the curves and strength of John filling the edges and emptiness in Sherlock. He could hear his heart beating smoothly in his chest.

"You hear that?" John's voice was a deep rumble in his chest. 

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"Good. Go to sleep."

And he did.

 

 


	8. Pretend She's Cluedo

_Sherlock_

 

"Welcome back, Sherlock! How was your week?" Frank asked as Sherlock walked into his office. 

"Fine." Standard go-to answer through a tight-lipped smile.

A brief flicker of annoyance across his therapists face, but he covers it with a strained smile. He guestures to the armchair next to the shuttered windows, and Sherlock delicately sits down.

The office was a friendly, warm place. Low lighting from several lamps, pictures of Frank's kids and dogs, comfortable armchairs and a couch, all designed to be non-threatening and welcoming.

Sherlock has never been more on-edge.

_He has three different kinds of hairs on his tweed jacket that needs dry cleaning, so he has three different kinds of cat; he's balding but he's using apple cider vinegar to try to stimulate hair growth and his wife thinks it's a stupid idea--_

"So last time you were here, you mentioned John...how is he?" Frank asks, startling the detective out of his rapid-fire deductions.

Sherlock stiffens at his name, annoyed at himself for bringing John into something he shouldn't have to deal with. "He's fine."

His therapist sighs, leaning forward on his elbows and massaging his temples and then lifting his face to look at him.

"Sherlock...I get it if you don't want to talk. I'm some random person with a PhD that wants to make you open up and tell them all your secrets and cry, and then send you on your merry way after pocketing some cash," he says, staring hard into the detective's eyes, making Sherlock squirm a bit. "But whether you like it or not, I am your therapist and if you want to get better you have to trust me and talk to me."

Sherlock nods, saying nothing, too irritated at the fact that Frank was right to formulate a rebuttal. The therapist leans back into the armchair again, crossing one ankle onto his other knee, a non-threatening and open gesture he probably studied in college.

"So, is there anything you _would_ like to talk about?" He asks.

The detective chews on this statement a while. As much as it pained him to admit it, he did want to talk some things over. Sometimes it was hard to talk to John around the whole boyfriend dynamic. A neutral party was probably the best bet for conversation.

"I don't _want_  talk about anything," he says, ever the pedant, "but I have to, so I will."

Frank nods, gesturing to continue.

"John has been a bit...stifling." Sherlock admits. Frank nods again.

"Every time I talk to him I feel like he's trying to dissect me," Sherlock says, already finding himself irritable about the topic. "Like I'm some patient he needs to diagnose and patch up."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"Are you a patient that needs to be diagnosed and patched up?"

Sherlock's face twists into a grimace, looking down at the armrest he was picking at. "No. I'm not."

"Then maybe you should stop acting like one."

Sherlock snaps his head up, instantly angry. "What the hell do you mean by that?!"

"I mean what I said," the therapist says simply, "if you continue to act in a way that makes you seem like a patient or victim of his care, then that's what will happen. If you don't give him reason to worry, he won't. If you stop purging, he'll let you go to the bathroom by yourself. If you stop cutting, you can have your shaving razor back,"

"It's not that easy." Sherlock snaps, hostility glowing in his chest. "You don't know anything about it."

"I never said anything about easy. And I wouldn't go that far either. It's going to be the most difficult thing you've ever done in your life, but I know how it feels. Would you believe I spent years on the receiving end of a therapy session, even in my adult years?" Frank says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock is silent. It almost didn't occur to him that other adults have faced this too. Every time he was in a hospital, it was always with teenagers and the occasional twenty something. Even in the adult ward, most of the residents were either drug addicts, abuse victims, or had anger issues. He was generally the only one who actively self-harmed and had an ongoing eating disorder. It was often treated by the other patients, even the staff, as if it were something teenage girls with daddy issues did for attention, not something that has held him hostage for most of his life.

"Look: you never have to speak about things that you aren't ready to talk about. But sitting there silent and petulant isn't going to help you, and honestly, Sherlock, I don't really see you having any kind of quality of life if you don't try. I don't really see you having much more life ahead of you if you don't  try and fight what has been a part of you for your entire life." Frank looks at his watch, allowing Sherlock a moment to compose himself again. Before he can say anything, the therapist speaks again.

"Well, that's the end of our hour. Please, just think about it, okay? You need to decide if you want to heal and be with John enough to make some major changes. Have a nice night, Sherlock, I'll see you next week."

Sherlock got up, almost robotically, and walked into the evening air to hail a cab. He had a lot of thinking to do, and it wasn't going to be easy.

 

***

 

_John_

 

John waits anxiously for Sherlock to return to the flat. He has just started going to therapy on his own, and John didn't really know if it was the best thing to do, but he had to allow Sherlock a chance to prove his trust. He didn't realize how many dangers there were on the short ride from the hospital to the flat that Sherlock could fall victim to. Stores where he could buy razors, cigarettes (John found out the rather disturbing fact that the reason why Sherlock smoked is because the nicotine numbed his hunger), alleys where he could purge his lunch into, all kinds of pitfalls that John never considered existing in London.

The door creaks open, startling John out of his catastrophic thinking spiral. He stands immediately, but resists the urge to rush over and meet Sherlock at the door. He noticed that it irritated his boyfriend to be constantly fussed over when he returned home from therapy.

"How did it go?" John asks, trying to sound nonchalant and hide the tone of worry from his voice.

"It went fine." 

Standard answer.

"Oh. That's great...would you care for a cuppa?"

Standard reply.

"Yes, actually."

Not so standard reply. Maybe things were changing. John isn't sure what the change in desire to drink tea signified, but he was ready to accept any kind of change at this point. As John is making the tea, he casually remarks,

"Oh, I, uh, I have a...surprise, for you, of sorts."

Sherlock looks up from the back of the tea box he was studying--looking at the nutrition facts, no doubt, but John doesn't really care to get into a row over that at the moment--and narrows his eyes suspiciously. "What kind of surprise?"

John clears his throat. "The good kind, I hope. I was downtown last week, while you were gone to therapy, and I found this." He disappears into the bedroom they shared and returns with a box. Sherlock sits up straighter, his interest obviously piqued. John settles onto the couch across from him and carefully sets the box down, and delicately removes the lid.

A pair of pointed ears are visible, followed by a small, black head with almost comically large emerald eyes and whiskers much too long for a creature of its size.

"A cat?" Sherlock says flatly, eyeing the tiny kitten with confusion and slight disgust. 

John nodded. "Yeah, a kitten. Found her stuck in a back alley trash bin. Took her to the vet and got her shots and everything, and I thought you might like a...friend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I already told you: I don't have friends. Just one."

"Yeah, I know. To be honest, I thought it might help you take care of yourself if you had another living thing to take care of. Something that needed you alive to survive itself. So...I brought her home." John finishes, rocking slightly on his heels in anticipation.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he picks the kitten up and holds her an arms length away, studying it. His gaze is one of scrutiny, but John can't tell if he likes the cat or if he thinks it's too silly to entertain the thought of having a pet.

"I suppose," His boyfriend says doubtfully. "I'm not very fond of pets. Doesn't make sense to voluntarily bring an animal into your own home." He sets the kitten back down into the box, then gets up and wanders into the back bedroom. Music is heard from within in a few moments.

John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It didn't go well, but it didn't go badly either. He picks up the cat and sets her onto the floor, and watches her as she stumbles around, not quite grasping the skill of walking yet. Hopefully Sherlock would warm up to her in time. John really did think a pet would be good for his boyfriend. Maybe the responsibility of being in charge of the life of another living creature would motivate him to recover. On the other hand, if the detective couldn't take care of himself, how could he take care of a cat?

John shakes his head and returns to the kitchen. He recently has been trying to learn to cook. Fish and chips and other fast food was on the list of Sherlock's "fear foods"--foods that he absolutely refused to eat for fear of weight gain. John couldn't very well force him to eat junk food, but hopefully he would be more receptive to healthy, home cooked meals. He wasn't very good at it yet, but so far he has not set the flat on fire, so John is calling that a win.

Tonight's meal is chicken and pasta, so John begins to defrost the chicken, humming absentmindedly a bit. It's one of the few times he feels at peace, when he's working on something to help his boyfriend. Just doing _something_ to feel in control of the situation helped a lot. John's mind turns to concentration on the recipe, and he banishes all worry from his mind.

 

***

 

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock doesn't know how to feel. The whole "allowing emotions to present themselves and acknowledge them" thing he's been trying to do as been largely confusing and frustrating. What's the point of feeling things if you can't even fucking figure out what the hell you're feeling that way about? He puts down his violin, sits on his bed with his head in his hands, and tries to do some introspection.

First emotion he feels is anger. _Why am I angry?_

Because John is trying too hard. _Why does that bother me?  
_

Because he can take care of his own damn self. He doesn't need a third parent. He's in control and a master of his mind and body.

_That's....less true, now that I think about it._

So, if he can't take care of himself, why is he angry that John is trying to do it for him, or at least assisting him in that?

_I don't know._

"Come _on_ , Sherlock, _think_!" He angrily mutters, smacking the side of his head and tugging on his hair a bit in frustration. Why the ever-loving _fuck_ was this so hard? He, Sherlock Holmes, the famous, world renowned consulting detective, who can figure out the impossible in a matter of days, can't even identify his own thoughts and feelings. What is he even good for, then?

His intense inner battle is interrupted by a ridiculously tiny mew. He jerks his head up, making eye contact with the little black kitten that had appeared in the doorway.

"What do you want?" Sherlock says irritably. _Great. I talk to cats now. I'm losing it._ The kitten stumbles into the room in the vague direction of the detective, who lifts his feet up onto the bed on instinct. A little silly, he realizes.

John pokes his head around the doorframe. 

"Ah, wondered where she got to. You good with her in here?" he asks.

Sherlock pauses. "I suppose," he reluctantly says, his feet still tucked underneath him.

John chuckles softly in a knowing way, which further pisses off the detective, but he lets it go.

"What do you want to call her?" he questions.

"Does it matter? They never come when called." Sherlock says petulantly, still eyeing the cat as if it were a creature of the deep.

"Neither do you, but you still have a name."

Sherlock sighs. "All right. We'll call her...Cluedo." _Because I doesn't have a clue as to why she's still here._

"Good name. I suppose that means you want to keep her?" John asks hopefully.

"Well, you're the doctor here, so I must follow the doctor's orders, correct?" Sherlock sneers, catching himself off guard with the amount of venom in his voice. Yep, he's still angry.

John looks briefly hurt, but shakes it off. Lately Sherlock has been feeling guilty when that happens. He used to not care who he hurt by being brutally honest, but there was something about the look of betrayal and sadness in John's face that made him hate himself for not being as loving as John is. Especially, he felt, because he didn't deserve the kindness John so freely gave.

"Well, if you feel that way, I guess--"

"I'm sorry."

The words are out of Sherlock's mouth before he can register what he said. He immediately feels defensive and embarrassed, but he's not quite sure why.

"For what?" John asks kindly.

"For...for always being such an arsehole." Sherlock says quietly. "I'm sorry that I'm so... _difficult_...to deal with."

"Nonsense, Sherl, I'm--" John starts, but is cut off by Sherlock.

"No, let me say this. I've been...angry at you. And I don't have a right to be, because you're just trying to take care of me since I can't do it on my own. And so I keep making jabs and accusations because of that," Sherlock explains, becoming more confident with every word he spoke. "I'm trying to understand what I'm feeling, because I don't like hurting you. Myself, no problem, but you? I could never."

John smiles warmly, and walks over to sit next to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock feels himself melting into his boyfriend's touch.

"I'm _so_ proud of you, love," John says softly, pressing a kiss to the other man's neck. "You are so much better than you were 6 months ago. Seeing you heal and grow does wonders for me. You're trying, and it shows. I couldn't ever be happier about anything else."

Sherlock feels his eyes well with tears suddenly and intensely, his throat tightening almost to the point of suffocation.

"No one...no one has ever...said that to me...before...ever" Sherlock gasps, forcing words out between voice cracks and sharp inhales. "I've never...I've never made anyone...never made anyone proud before."

"Oh, Sherlock," John mumbles into his shoulder. "You've always made me proud. I could never be disappointed in you."

With that, the detective bursts into tears, dissolving in sobs as he clutches his boyfriend's arm as ragged cries are ripped from his throat. He hasn't allowed himself to cry since he first confessed his past to John six months ago, and all of a sudden the dam in Sherlock's mind breaks and he can't do anything except cry and cry into John's arms.

"It's okay, love, let it out. I'm here. I'm here." John whispers, holding him tighter and pressing Sherlock's head into his chest. "Listen to my heart. As long as it's beating, you'll be okay. You're okay."

It was a long time before Sherlock could breathe normally, a long time before his tears dried, but what was longest of all, were the years he spent believing that no one could love him, that no one could touch him, and that no one could see him cry.

God, how wonderful it felt to be wrong.

 


	9. Catharsis

_Sherlock_

 

Sherlock had been sat on the couch for a solid 6 hours. Not because he was in his mind palace, or because he was watching a film. No, it was because Cluedo fell asleep in his lap at around noon and Sherlock didn't have the heart to move her.

He had also eaten lunch with John with her in his lap.

It wasn't much, but the detective had to admit that John was getting better at cooking, and if Sherlock was honest with himself, he actually did enjoy eating. The taste, the smell, the sharpness of his hunger easing. Everything that came after was horrific though. Feeling full, thinking of the calories, devising ways to burn it off, and the soul-crushing guilt that accompanied it.

So when John served him a very complex sandwich composed entirely of vegetables and low fat meat, he had to allow himself to eat. For Cluedo, John had said. Can't have her impaling herself on his bones. Sherlock surprised himself by laughing at that. He hadn't laughed in a long, long time. John seemed to realize that as well, and his eyes had welled with happy tears that made Sherlock feel like maybe he could recover after all.

So he ate about half of the sandwich, and almost out of habit, pushed his plate away. Yes, he was still hungry. No, he wasn't going to finish it. But he was trying, and that's what he felt mattered.

John smiles softly and takes the plate and half-eaten sandwich away to the kitchen without a comment. Sherlock appreciates that. He doesn't want a full 5 minutes of praise over eating half a sandwich, and he definitely doesn't want to be chided into eating the whole thing. Just a smile to acknowledge that John knew he was trying was enough.

"Would you like to watch a film tonight, love?" John asks from the kitchen. He had started saving the food that Sherlock didn't eat in the fridge so that the detective could finish it if he liked without having a fuss made over it. Another thing Sherlock appreciated.

Sherlock smiles, fancying the possibility of a normal activity that normal couples do on normal Friday nights. It was always so tiring constantly being the freak, the anomaly, that the concept of doing something as generic as a film night sounded heavenly. 

"I think I'd like that," Sherlock says, taking a moment to meet John's eyes and try as hard as he could to beam his thoughts into his boyfriend's head.

_Thank you for the food._

_Thank you for treating me like a normal person._

_Thank you for loving me._

_Thank you for putting up with me._

_I love you._

_So very, very much._

John smiles lovingly, and Sherlock hopes to God that John could feel the love radiating off of him.

"What do you say, then? You can choose tonight, I've got a surprise for dinner." John says, winking at Sherlock. The detective can't tell if the fluttering in his belly was from the wink or from the thought of the words "surprise" and "dinner" in the same sentence.

"Can we watch a documentary?" Sherlock asks, feeling slightly sheepish about his request for some reason.

John's smile remains on his face, and he shakes his head in amusement. "Of course we can watch a documentary. What on? I'm sure you already know everything. Except that the Earth goes round the sun, but other than that, of course."

Sherlock feels a brief flicker of annoyance, but soon pushes it off. "I only know important things John, you know this. Regardless, I'd like to watch one on cats."

"Cats are important, then?" John asks in that same tone of amusement. "But not basic astronomy?"

Cluedo chooses this moment to yowl indignantly, and Sherlock covers her ears and says in mock-offense, "Not in front of the child!"

The ex-soldier laughs, and Sherlock has to say it looks good on him. Everything looks good on him, actually, but laughter especially.

"So you like her, and want to watch a documentary on cats to know more about her?" John teases.

"Well, it's not that I _like_ her, it would just be _irresponsible_ to not know how to properly care for her!" Sherlock asserts, feeling a little flustered at the realization that he is now what they call a "cat person".

"Whatever you say, love," John says, still looking so gorgeous in that shade of happy. "We can watch a documentary on cats. For educational purposes, of course."

" _Thank_ you." Sherlock huffs, turning to tend to Cluedo, who had started rubbing her face on Sherlock's hand demandingly. John just smiles and finishes up in the kitchen.

 

***

 

_John_

 

The lights were low, curtains drawn, and Sherlock's head was resting in his lap, with Cluedo nestled between them, and for once, all felt right with the world. 

The documentary John had rented is playing, and it was tracing the ancestry of cats all the way back to Egypt, where the first domesticated cat is thought to have originated. Sherlock is paying rapt attention to the film, but John finds it hard to focus on the TV when his own beauty is next to him, and John is allowing himself to indulge in what he had always itched to do ever since he met Sherlock: run his hands through his hair. The thick, curly longs feel so wonderfully right in his fingers, and John feels like maybe, just maybe, they'll make it out all right.

Perhaps there was no "maybe" about it, actually. John rarely allowed himself to think positively at this point for fear of catastrophic disappointment, but things definitely have been on an upward trend. Sherlock had gained almost 7kg in the past 5 months, and was more consistent with meals, despite not eating much, and he had been clean from self harm, cigarettes, and purging for a solid 6 weeks. John knew it was dangerous to let his guard down, but he still felt so immensely proud of Sherlock that he thought his heart may burst.

Soon, John notices Sherlock's breathing growing slow and even, and it appears the detective has fallen asleep. John feels a rush of affection for him, not quite sure why, but there it was regardless. He really needs to start preparing dinner, but for now, he can sit with Sherlock until the documentary ends. 

And he did.

 

***

 

_Sherlock_

 

Safe.

That's the emotion he was feeling right now.

Safety, comfort, and calmness.

Sherlock had been trying to identify each new emotion that presented itself to him, and he was doing a pretty bang up job at it too, if he says so himself. Granted, _dealing_ with the emotion was often a much more arduous task, but he still felt rather proud of himself for being able to identify  his emotions so well up to this point.

Being with John always inspired this particular feeling, which had only intensified as they became involved with one another, but he had never taken time to name it until now. Feeling safe hasn't really been a thing up until his more recent years, but he did rather enjoy the feeling. It was nice to know that for once, taking care of and protecting himself wasn't entirely up to him now.

While the documentary was fascinating, Sherlock couldn't help but submit to the wonderful sensation of John stroking his hair. If Sherlock were a cat himself, he would be purring up a storm.

Eventually, his eyelids grow heavy, his mind grows foggy, and the detective falls asleep.

And he dreams.

Lately, it's been all nightmares, no sleep. His body seems to be recovering, and his mind appears to be healing, but at night, all the monsters in the closet come out and devour his sanity. 

But not this time.

This time, he dreams of vast open skies, the smell of John's aftershave, the sensation of his fingers on his skin and the complete and utter lack of revulsion at the concept, the feeling of John's smile against his lips, all the great and wondrous things the past few months have given him. Safety and love and healing all wrapped up in the emotion that he has come to call joy.

For once, all was well in the world.

 

***

 

His dreams had faded, and he was in a comfortable limbo between sleep and wakefulness, just awake enough to feel the warmth of John next to him, but just asleep enough to not feel anything but peace.

"Come on, love," John murmurs into his ear. "The movie's over, and I'd like your help with something."

Sherlock stirs a bit, his mind slowly booting up and his feelings coming online. He felt rested and comfortably sleepy, and he rose to a sitting position and stretched, resembling Cluedo for a few seconds. 

"Alright, I'll do it," Sherlock mumbles sleepily. "What is it?"

"I'd like you to help me make dinner," John says.

Suddenly, alarm bells and klaxons start sounding in his mind, and the peaceful numbness submitted to a familiar panic. Nibbling at food from an unknown origin was one thing, actually making it with intent to eat it? That was terrifying. It's easy to pretend that calories don't exist when you don't know exactly what and how much is in the food. But when you make it, you're aware of every tablespoon of butter, every ounce of sugar, you are made intimately familiar with the food and then you're expected to eat it. Sherlock could feel a panic attack coming on, but he takes a breath, closes his eyes, and says,

"Okay."

That one word was like a load of bricks dropping off his chest, and his previously fear-heavy limbs were filled with an anticipatory tingling numbness. This wasn't going to be easy, but he has to do it.

When he opens his eyes, he sees John's face. He could see the worry and fear drain from his face, and he watched it be replaced with pride and just a tiny bit of self-satisfaction.

Sherlock's face twists into a scowl, "Oh, wipe that smug look off your face, Doctor Watson. I'm not your patient, you didn't "fix" me, I'm doing this on my own."

John just smiles in disbelief and shakes his head in amusement, which both angers and relieves the detective. Angry that he's laughing at him, but relieved that his sharp words didn't seem to hurt his boyfriend.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says quietly. Saying sorry was still difficult, but it wasn't quite like pulling teeth anymore. "I know you've helped me a lot, I didn't mean what I said."

John just smiles again. "Sherlock, I'm just laughing because even after all this, after all the hell we've been through in the past six months, you're still the most stupid, stubborn git I've ever met in my entire godforsaken life. It's just funny at this point. Sure, it used to hurt, but now I know that _you_ know how much I've done for you, and that when you snap it's just because you're changing and you don't like it."

Sherlock still has a small scowl on his face, and he is well aware of the fact that he probably looks like some pouty, petulant child at the moment. "Fine. Are we going to cook dinner or what?"

John stifles yet another shit-eating grin before beckoning the detective into the kitchen. 

"Come on then. It'll be fun. I promise." He reaches out a hand to Sherlock, who reluctantly takes it and is pulled into a standing position and led into the kitchen.

"So today, I thought you might like something simple, like a Caesar salad." John begins.

A salad. That does sound good. Not too high in calories, but still tasty. Sherlock nods in agreement.

"Alright, love," John murmurs, almost as if to himself. He reaches into the freezer, past the bag of thumbs and under the frozen mystery substances, and pulls out some frozen chicken breasts.

"So, first, we need to defrost the chicken," John says, handing the package of chicken to his boyfriend. "Just put it in the microwave on defrost for about 15 minutes."

Sherlock gingerly unwraps the chicken and places it in the microwave on a plate, attempting to steal a look at the nutrition facts on the label. He doesn't get a clear view, but the first number is 1, and it looks like a triple digit number. So, a max of 199 calories. It's not too bad. 

 _I_ _t's just chicken. Don't lose your mind over it,_  Sherlock has to remind himself.

"All right, lovely," John comments, washing his hands, gesturing for the detective to join him. John takes Sherlock's long, slender hands in his own and washes them, lovingly stroking the side of his palm with his thumb, gazing at him adoringly. Sherlock smiles despite himself, and leans in to kiss John.

When their lips meet, everything else melts away as if it's the first time all over again. The first real kiss, not when John kissed him out of desperation when he was spilling his life story. Calories, carbs, trans fat, and kilograms disappear as they kiss, and Sherlock wants to stay like this forever. 

John eventually pulls back, his eyes half-lidded and full of pure love, staring at Sherlock as if he hung the moon. The detective was most likely looking at him the same way. John dries their hands, then claps his own together. 

"Right. So, now we're onto the salad itself."

Sherlock nods. He hasn't quit memorized the calorie count in most vegetables, seeing as they were all on his list of safe foods, and the nutrition facts are hard to read on the sly on the flimsy plastic encasing them, so he's flying blind for now.

John hands him a heart of lettuce, gently guiding Sherlock's hand as he chopped. Sherlock could have chosen to feel annoyed at the guidance; the man knew his way around a knife, but some part of him savored the touch and allowed it.

After the lettuce is chopped up, John leaves the detective to work on some of the strawberries and snap peas they were adding, while he washes some spinach and slices some onions. The two work in comfortable silence, punctuated by knives chopping and scraping against cutting boards. John begins to hum a tune that Sherlock didn't recognize, but finds himself swaying slightly to the beat. He's not really one for music, but anything that John does is worth experiencing.

"What song is that, my dear John?" Sherlock asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the calm, peaceful ambiance.

"Oh, I don't remember the name of it, I just heard it on the radio on my way to work this morning. I think it goes something like, _cause all of me loves all of you, love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections...."_ John trails off, much to Sherlock's disappointment. He rather liked John's singing voice _._ "I don't know all the words, just the first few lines of the chorus, but I did like it. Reminded me of you."

"All of Me, by John Legend." Sherlock answers instantly, surprising himself with his unexpected knowledge. "I remember hearing it when it first came out a few years ago, shortly after I met you, actually. Kept thinking; hoping, really, that someone would love me like that. You seemed too good to be true, so I didn't bank on it. It turned out to be you after all."

John laughs quietly to himself, almost in disbelief. "Fancy that: Sherlock Holmes the hopeless romantic."

"I'm not a hopeless romantic," Sherlock snapped. "I just like the song."

"Whatever you say, love." John replies. "Now, help me cook this chicken and we can eat."

The detective and his boyfriend finish making dinner, and they sit down to eat. Sherlock has estimated about 250 calories for the whole thing, excluding the salad dressing, which he politely declined to when offered. Not bad. At least not bad enough to freak out over.

"I'm proud of you, love," John says between mouthfuls of food. "Cooking dinner, then eating it. Lots of progress. It does me good to see you healing."

"It feels good to me as well," Sherlock says quietly, focused on managing one bite at a time.

"And that's all that matters," John says decisively. 

Sherlock looks up to meet John's eyes. "That's all that matters," he affirms.

And for the first time in a long time, he meant what he said.


	10. The Game's Afoot

_Sherlock_

 

It was happening again.

The worst thing imaginable.

A fate worse than death.

_Boredom._

Recovery had Sherlock so tied up that a case was the last thing on his mind. But now? Things are looking up, and the detective needs a fix for boredom that doesn't involve hurting himself.

The trick was to get John to go for it.

"No. Absolutely not." John had stated the first time he asked (around a week ago), adamant and unmoving. "You need to focus on recovering, not solving someone else's problems."

"But _John_ ," Sherlock had seethed, "You don't _understand_ , you don't know how _awful_ feeling _bored_ is when you're like _me!_ "

"Work on yourself." John stated again. "Recover, then we'll talk."

So here he is. Eating a whole ass meal. Recovering.

They're at dinner, and Sherlock is forcing down bite after bite, about to short-circuit, but bound and determined to win. Each mouthful of food sliding down his throat feels like another nail in the coffin. He realizes, for the millionth time, that he's never going to look as thin as he wants to as long as John is around. But if he's honest with himself--which he often isn't--he knows he will never be thin enough, no matter how much weight he loses.

"You're doing really well," John says quietly, still focused on the spaghetti in front of him. 

"Thank you," Sherlock says, equally as quiet and focused. It was all he could do to keep shoveling food down his throat.  It was torture, but if it meant a case, he could do it.

After dinner, Sherlock helps John with the washing up, buzzing with anticipation. It was the third meal he had eaten and finished, and he hoped that was enough to convince John of his recovery.

"So, John..." Sherlock begins, pausing to clear his throat. "About that case...I thought it might do me some good to get out of the flat a bit. Solve something."

John sighs patiently. "I already told you that you need to work on recovery, and I stand by that. However," he adds when Sherlock opens his mouth to object, "I have seen you working hard and eating, and I'm proud of you. Which is why I took the liberty of finding us a case to do."

Sherlock's mind is blank for a bit, before exploding into such pure joy that he thought he might fall to the floor. "You're serious?! A case?!"

John nods and smiles, thoroughly enjoying his reaction. "Yes. I didn't get anything major, you could probably solve it in 48 hours, but I figured it was better than nothing."

Sherlock's heart is full of love for this man. No one had ever done what John has done for him. Not his parents, not Mycroft, not Molly, not anyone who had claimed to care about him has done so much for him. He was almost painfully grateful for the love and patience the army doctor has done for him. 

"Thank you, John. This means the world to me," Sherlock says, unable to contain the grin spreading across his face. Slowly, ever so slowly, the detective was learning how to feel again.

"It's no problem, love." John says fondly. "You've earned it. However," he adds, making the detective's heart stall. "I want you to eat at least one meal a day on this case."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, ready to unleash his indignant protests. He doesn't eat during cases, John knows that. Yes, that was partially an excuse for his eating disorder, but it also was due to the fact that eating made him slow, sluggish, and unable to perform at his highest. 

But it's his first case in almost 6 months. If he had to eat one meal a day in order to have it, isn't that worth it a little? Besides, it was 2 meals less than he was usually required to eat. Sherlock decides not to push his luck. A case is worth one meal a day.

"Fine." Sherlock says haltingly. "I can do a meal a day."

John beams, pressing his palm to the detective's cheek, Sherlock melting into his touch. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. I knew you could do it."

"I'm not quite out of the woods, yet, John," Sherlock says quietly. "But I appreciate this."

"I know," John says, equally as quiet. "Well, we best be off, then? I told Lestrade we'd be there in 10 minutes."

Sherlock's face twists into disgust. "Oh, come on, not Lestrade! I hate Scotland Yard," he mutters under his breath. Suddenly, something hits him. "Do they know?"

"Know about what?"

"You know what. About my...disorders." Sherlock says, hating even now how difficult it was to admit there was something wrong with him. 

John sighs, unwilling to come forward with the information. "They don't know everything, I haven't told them much besides that you're unwell, but your...attempt...was quite the buzz around the medical staff. No one is supposed to talk about it, but you know how word gets around. From what I can tell, the only thing people know is that you tried to kill yourself, and have been off the grid ever since."

Sherlock's stomach sinks. Moving to London had been the start of what he hoped was a new life. Growing up in a small town meant that everyone knew everyone's business, and he was ever so desperate to escape the place that knew every painful detail about him. And now, people know.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says, his eyes filled with secondhand hurt at the look on the detective's face. "I know how important privacy is to you, but these things happen. We don't have to talk about it, I've actually asked them not to say anything about it. They know it's your first case in months, and they're going to be gentle."

"I don't want them to be gentle," Sherlock says frustratedly. "I want to be treated the same way. I know they were never kind to me, but I don't care. I'm just tired of being abnormal. A freak."

John looks at his boyfriend sadly. "You're not a freak, Sherlock; I don't care what Donovan says. You're an incredibly gifted and talented man, and some people just don't see that."

Sherlock exhales forcefully, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions inside him. Hurt. Anger. Frustration. Betrayal. Shame. Embarrassment. Everything he hates all swirled into one. Emotions came so easily now, and sometimes Sherlock wished he could go back to feeling numb and sad. At least sadness was familiar.

"It's fine. I'll get used to it." Sherlock says, trying to force out words amidst the avalanche of frustrating emotions. 

"You shouldn't have to get used to it. No one should." John says softly.

"Well, it's not going to just stop, is it?" Sherlock snaps angrily. "Isn't that what they say at therapy; you can't control other people, so you can only control how you react?"

John is silent for a moment, chewing on this thought. Sherlock feels flashes of irritation ignite through his body, each one a little stronger than the last. God, how he _hated_ emotions!

"Well, you're right," John says quietly, not looking at his boyfriend. "You can't control other people. I was just trying to help you see that you're worth so much more than what everybody else says."

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, ready to rapid-fire self-deprecating protests, but deflates a bit. Arguments are getting tiring these days. It used to be easy to attack and parry words and insults, but now it was more exhausting than cathartic. He doesn't know why, that's just how he is now.

"Okay, fine, whatever you say," Sherlock concedes. "Just show me the case already."

John smiles fondly before leading the detective to his laptop.

"Well, it's not a huge conspiracy case, but it'll do to get sate your boredom for a bit," he begins. "Lestrade's been stuck on this one since it's a bit out of his league, but there's a boy, Adam, a few streets over that is missing his cat. Strange thing is, many other animals are going missing in that area too. But Adam's the only one who got his cat back, but she came back...different. Thought you might like to give her a once-over, see if there's anything off with her."

Sherlock feels briefly irritated at the simplicity of the case, but he figures it's better than nothing. 

"Alright. I'll take it," the detective says.

John responds with a brilliant smile. "That sounds like the Sherlock I know. Come along, we'll meet Lestrade so he can hand over jurisdiction."

Sherlock is surprised. Lestrade has never just "handed over" jurisdiction to him before, no matter how heavily he was involved in the solving of the case. It occurred to him it was most likely a pity offer, and although that annoyed him, beggars can't be choosers and he's lucky he even _has_ a case.

The two hail a cab, and spend the ride talking, laughing, and joking. Sherlock realizes how he missed the buzz of the pre-case adrenaline. His senses revving up to full gear, witty banter and flirtation with John, the thrill of the chase to land some criminal behind bars--oh how happy he was to be back!

"So," John say, his voice taking on a serious tone. "I've asked everyone to mind their business and not treat you any different, but just remember that no one is entitled to your life story. If Donovan or some other asshole is being a prick about it, you can just tell them to shut the hell up, and that would be okay."

Sherlock grimaces a bit at the reminder that everyone most likely knows, to some degree, of his fucked up mental state. He used to not mind as much being called a freak, mostly because his "freak" attributes were his superior intelligence and his deduction skills, and Sherlock is rather proud of those. But this is different. Being depressed, suicidal, anorexic, and a cutter was so much more personal and close to home, and he had fought so hard to keep that aspect of himself hidden and away from scrutiny. The word "freak" now carries so much venom nd weight that Sherlock isn't sure he can handle it being directed at him again.

"I know," he says quietly, staring straight ahead. "I just wished I could have kept this to myself."

John nods sympathetically. "I know, love. But it's like cleaning: an area can't be clean and healthy unless you pull everything out into to open and start fresh. Just remember that people, are, as you say, stupid, and sometimes you're going to have to deal with ignorance and stupidity from people, and you can't let that affect you too deeply."

Sherlock is silent, quietly mulling over this. He was never one to care what others thought of him (except John, of course), but it seemed as if allowing himself to feel again brought all sorts of unwanted emotions to the surface, and he's beginning to think he liked it better when he was numb.

"Do they know about us?" the detective asked, "I mean, that we're together?"

"I did mention it, actually, but I left out the details. They don't need to know everything." John responds. Sherlock nods, feeling rather ambivalent. People have accused him being queer, but he never really sat down and tried to find a label for his orientation, so it was a nonissue for him. Still. It's just one more thing to be picked at for.

Imagine going from a clever, mysterious, entirely over-competent detective to a depressed, queer, broken kind of man. He knew he was always like that, but he had never let it show. Now his facade is broken, and he has to decide whether to start constructing it again, or finally bare himself to the world. The latter option was not looking so good for him.

"That's fine," the detective said. "I've never really had a set orientation, I don't think it matters what gender I'm attracted to, it's all the same. I've only ever felt true, romantic feelings for you, but it did take the better part of 12 years to get there. Doesn't matter. I mean, it does, but not the specific label."

"It's fine, I knew what you meant. Most of us didn't peg you as straight anyway." John says offhandedly. "I knew from our first case."

Sherlock is a little irritated at this; he didn't like the idea that he was readable. Dangerous things happen when you have this many secrets and can be read like a book. He shakes it off, and the excitement of the pre-case high with it. He tries to prepare himself for the anticipated harassment once he gets to Scotland Yard, trying not to get too spun up about it. The last thing he needs is to have a panic attack the first day back.

As the cab pulls up to the hospital, Sherlock inhales deeply, hold his breath, and exhales again, for 4 seconds each time. He didn't like using therapy-mandated coping skills such as breathing exercises, but they did help some. The detective is, again, put off by how deeply his supposed recovery is affecting him. Turning the thrill of the chase into an anxiety-inducing activity. All those damn emotions being dredged up would be the death of him. Poor choice of words, he admits, but the sentiment is the same.

John seems to notice, and grabs Sherlock's hand tightly, smoothing his thumb across his scarred knuckles. The touch is welcome, and the detective feels some of the anxiety assuage.

When they walk into the room, a hushed silence falls and all eyes are on him. Sherlock shifts his weight uncomfortably, suddenly aware that he looks much different (read: fatter from full meals and with stubble caused by not being allowed to use a straight razor) and most likely appearing anxious and unsure: two things he had never allowed himself to be until recently.

Donovan smirks, and Sherlock braces himself for the torrent of insults she is sure to throw at him. 

Instead, to her credit, she just snarkily says "Welcome back, _freak_."

Despite the word "freak" hurting, Sherlock was very relived that that's the only thing she chose to say. Whether John was behind the lack of teasing or not, he appreciates it.

Sherlock forces his "I'm fine, what are you, a cop?" face on, and quickly shakes it off and addresses Lestrade.

"What have you got for me?" the detective asks curtly, falling so easily back into the genius sociopath role he had assumed for years.

Lestrade beings to relay the information John already gave him, his voice irritatingly kind and understanding. 

"Stop wasting my time, John told me all that already. Where's the boy? And the cat?" Sherlock says shortly.

Lestrade and Donovan exchange looks, which Sherlock doesn't like, but he presses on, trying to act like he used to. 

"He's at home. We were waiting for you so we could go question him," Lestrade explains.

"Absolutely not. I'll go by myself." Sherlock says, fully done with being treated like a child with delusions of grandeur.

"Are you sure that's the best idea?" Lestrade asks John. Another wave of indignant annoyance washes over the detective, bringing him dangerously close to his breaking point.

"I'm fine, thank you for asking, and I'm capable of making my own decisions. We're going to the house, just me and John, and we'll be fine. I don't need you, I've never needed you." Sherlock snaps, his tone just a tad angrier than he meant to sound.

Silence again, another exchanging of looks. Sherlock whirls around, coat and scarf flapping dramatically, and grabs John by the hand and pulling him with him. His grip on his boyfriend's hand is a little too tight, but John, as always, endures.

When they left the room and were out of earshot, John says, just loudly enough for Sherlock to hear him,

"Are you sure you're up for this, love?"

That did it. Consider the breaking point well and fully reached.

Sherlock rips his hand from John's, spins around 90° to face him, absolute rage filling his face.

" _I am fucking up to it!_ Why does everyone think I'm not? I'm not some broken child, I am a grown-ass adult and I can fucking do things by my fucking self! Stop treating me like I'll break if you breathe on me, I swear on my goddamn life I will call a cab and leave you here if you don't stop fucking saying shit like that to me!" Sherlock shouts at the top of his lungs, his hands curling into fists so tight that his fingernails pierce the flesh of his palm. He has had it up to fucking _here_ with people treating him like a child, like he was broken, like he had to be babysat. Where did his autonomy go? What, you spend a few weeks in a hospital and take a few pills and suddenly you're unable to be a free person? He was so fucking _sick_ of this! So sick of his illness holding him back, sick of the sidelong glances, the whispered "freak", "failure", "stupid" he kept hearing, just sick of being alive and being himself. That's what he was sick of the most: being Sherlock Holmes. 

John is quiet, not making eye contact, throwing a glance at the room they just left. Several heads turned to stare at him, and Sherlock freezes like a deer in headlights, caught in the middle of his meltdown. Embarrassment colors his cheeks, and he storms off to the elevator to escape.

"Wow, he really has lost it," he hears Donovan saying as he stalks down the hallway. Anger fills up the detective's chest, but he doesn't turn around for fear of people seeing the tears welling in his eyes.

John rushes to catch up with him, but stays a few feet behind him and to his left to give him some space. It reminds him of how the security guards at the hospitals flanked him when escorting him down the halls, and it makes him even angrier, tears now freely spilling from his eyes and onto his cheeks. He grits his teeth, holds his breath, and clenches his fists, trying to keep the impending panic attack at bay, at least until they can get out of sight. His chest starts to hitch and his throat constricts as his breath comes in gasps, and he knows he's out of time.

Sherlock turns abruptly into the nearest room, throwing open the door hard enough to dent the adjacent wall, staggering halfway into the room before collapsing onto his hands and knees, his back arched and heaving. Great gasps and ragged sobs are torn from his body, and he feels like the entire world is ending right here, right now. There wasn't enough air, his head was on fire, and his chest felt like someone was being crushing him into a vice. Why the hell was he like this?? Why can't he just go back to normal life?? He _loves_ doing cases, there's nothing he would rather be doing. So why was he on the floor of a random (thankfully empty) room of Scotland Yard losing control over something that used to bring him joy??

Sherlock is made aware of a hand on his back--rather, just five fingertips gently resting on his right shoulder blade. The touch grounds him, but doesn't overwhelm him in his raw, vulnerable state. John says nothing, just continues keeping his fingers on his boyfriend's back until his sobs turn to whimpers, his gasps turn to shudders, and the twitching of his hands still into slight tremors. Slowly, after what feels like centuries, the detective pushes himself off his hands and knees and rocks back into a kneeling position, his head still bowed and his hands closed into fists.

"You're alright now, love," John says gently, spreading his hand flat against  the detective's scapula, moving closer and rubbing his hand over the admittedly less apparent bones in Sherlock's back. He sidles closer, drawing his boyfriend in for a hug. Sherlock clutches at him desperately, suddenly feeling like the only thing he can do right now is hold that military doctor as tight as he can before the world comes apart. Silent sobs shake his body, and John just holds him, rocking him through the final moments of his panic attack. Sherlock pulls back eventually, and kisses John for all he's worth. Tears find their way into his mouth, and the salt pricks at his tongue as he keeps their lips pressed together in a desperate kiss. 

Sherlock pulls away, and runs his shaking hands through his hair, and wipes his face and blows his nose with a kerchief he kept in his inside jacket pocket.

"Well, that was a bit of a shitstorm," Sherlock says dryly.

John laughs softly before agreeing. "A bit, yeah."

Thankfully, John had closed the door behind them, so his panic attack wasn't broadcasted through the entirety of the hospital wing. Sherlock appreciates everything his boyfriend did for him, even something as small as ensuring his low moments were private.

Sherlock, feeling much better emotionally at this point, stands, staggering a bit before John catches him.

"I would rather like to go home now."

John nods. "Of course, love. We can put on a film and give Cluedo a cuddle."

The two walk out of the room and down the hallway, Sherlock leaning a bit heavily on John, but doing his best to gather his thoughts and emotions again.

The cab ride home is silent, but not in a bad way. Awkward silences were unheard of at this point in their relationship, and sometimes it was nice to not have to say anything. The cab pulls up to 221B, and the pair tiredly walks into the flat, up the stairs, and the detective collapses on the couch. Cluedo jumps up onto the couch to meet him, and curls up next to him.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and tries to empty his mind of the past few hours, and tries to not linger on his panic attack. He hadn't had a panic attack like that in years. He would have small anxiety attacks in which he froze for a few minutes and had an internal fire drill, but he hasn't had the full blown, hyperventilating-crying-gasping-heart-racing-the-world-is-going-to-end ones. Bottling up his emotions have done wonders for him in the sense of less public freakouts, but he can't pretend that it's healthy and that he's just being "stoic".

John is heard puttering around in the kitchen, and Sherlock hopes to God that he isn't making him food. It was all too much right now, and he can't handle the stress of eating at the moment. He does know that he hasn't eaten today, and that he promised to eat at least one meal a day on a case, but he doesn't think he's physically capable of that right now.

John returns to the living room, settling in next to Sherlock with two cups of tea and a bowl of grapes.

"I figured you wouldn't want to eat anything right now, but I thought you'd might like a cuppa. The grapes are for me, but you're welcome to have them."

Sherlock nods and tries to give John a grateful look before taking the cup of tea and sipping it. It was warm, and the heat travelled down his throat and spread across his chest, effectively calming his nerves and stilling his still slightly trembling hands. He doesn't quite remember the calorie count in Earl Grey tea, it's not high, but he can taste some honey in the tea and briefly wonders how many unseen calories he's consuming. He's too exhausted to attempt mental calculations, so he just sighs and leans into John. 

He's always loved how John feels. He feels strong, solid, steady. Like you could hold onto him in a hurricane and come out unscathed. Sherlock has always felt rather fragile, as if the wrong word could snap him in half. He hated feeling like that, weak and frail. He has always tried to masquerade as strong and unshakable, but in reality, deep down, he knows he is not anything like John. But, as long as he had him, maybe he can stay in one piece after all is said and done.

John leans back into Sherlock, his weight rather comforting, and Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to block out anything and everything that isn't John. His smell, his warmth, his breathing, his heartbeat; everything else is irrelevant.

The two stay like that for a while, until Sherlock is finished with his tea. The detective stirs, and sits up. It's only 7:00 in the evening, but he feels exhausted, as if he could sleep for weeks and still wake up tired.

"I think it's best if I'm off to bed," he says, stretching and yawning. 

John nods and smiles kindly. "If you say so, love. I'll come join you in a few, just let me clean up and I'll be with you."

Sherlock gets up and plods to the bedroom, throwing off his coat and kicking off his shoes before collapsing on the bed fully-clothed. After a few minutes, John comes and joins him, settling next to him and spooning him, his arm thrown over the detective's waist. Sherlock is more or less asleep at this point, but he still snuggles close to is boyfriend anyway. John closes his eyes, and listens to him breathe. As long as he was breathing, everything would be okay.

Sherlock falls asleep, then John, and they spend the night together, as they should always be. 

 


	11. Trying Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> Hey guys! Just letting y'all know, this is the last chapter I'll be able to put out for a bit, I'm moving across the country for college and I don't know how long I'll be offline. Enjoy this chapter, I'll be back when I'm settled! Thank you for staying with me this long!
> 
> -Hannah

 

_John  
_

 

He had seen a lot of panic attacks in his day. Working at a hospital meant that many patients with mental illnesses would be checked in, and panic attacks were a weekly occurrence in his profession. He was always very clinical about it, not allowing himself to react emotionally, even though watching someone's mind and body rebel against them to the point of convulsions wasn't exactly relaxing. He could handle pretty much anything thrown at him.

But watching Sherlock, the love of his life, break down so completely and thoroughly? It hurt his heart. Luckily he knew how to handle a panic attack, but if it weren't for the fact that he dealt with it regularly, John would have broken down himself, unable to cope with seeing his boyfriend in such distress. He hadn't ever seen Sherlock have a full blown panic attack; the worst thing he saw in that regard were his minor anxiety attacks that would leave him frozen for a minute or two. Sure, that was difficult to watch anyway, but watching the great consulting detective reduced to a pile of tears and fear in front of him shook him to his core.

It was around 8 in the morning, and Sherlock was still asleep next to him, his clothing having pressed creases into his face and arms during the night, and John was propped up reading a book. He didn't want Sherlock waking up alone, not after last night, and he enjoyed his early morning company anyway. 

Focusing on the book was difficult; the image of Sherlock convulsing and sobbing on a hospital room floor kept flashing across his retinas, and he couldn't help but feel a deep and profound sadness. He felt a little helpless as well. There was only so much he can do for Sherlock in that state; nothing he could say or do would make the panic attack cease. His chest aches at the thought of his boyfriend suffering from these regularly, alone and afraid, with no one to hold him afterward and tell him he's loved and that he'd be okay.

Sherlock stirs next to him, and John pushes the upsetting thoughts away as he closed his book and turned to face the detective. 

"Good morning, love," John says with a smile, reaching out to brush his thumb over his boyfriend's sharp cheekbones.

"G'mornink..." Sherlock replies indistinctly, his mouth still tied up from sleep. "What time is't?"

John glances at his phone. "8:13. You were out for awhile."

Sherlock turns to face John and buries his head into his side. John puts his arm around him and pulls him closer, smiling fondly. 

"What would you like for breakfast?"

John felt Sherlock's breathing still for a moment, and he briefly regrets asking him so suddenly after last night. Still, the man had to eat something, yesterday all he had was tea with honey.

"Uhm..." Sherlock mumbles into John's side. John can practically hear the gears turning in his mind. He was obviously still exhausted from the night before. "I don't know...whatever you want..."

John smiles, stroking the side of his boyfriend's face. "Alright, love. You stay here, I'll be back shortly." Sherlock makes a noise of vague agreement, then another of irritation when John disengages from him and leaves the bed.

John begins to putter about the kitchen, turning the coffee maker on and opening the blinds before stopping to think hard about what he would make. Cooking for Sherlock was always hit or miss, and it felt like a losing battle at times. Serving him healthy, low-calorie food seemed to go over best with the detective, but there's only so much energy and needed weight a fruit salad can give to a person. Breakfast is usually the easiest. Coffee and toast, or a bagel. It wasn't much, but Sherlock tends to feel ill if he eats too much in the morning, and it sets a bad pace for the rest of the day. John remembers serving him a full English breakfast once, and Sherlock had spent the morning crouched over the toilet, unwillingly getting sick. The rest of the day he refused solids, and John was ready to tear his hair out in frustration by the time night fell.

So, blackberry jam toast with coffee it is.

When John returns to the bedroom, he sees Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched as he blinks blearily, trying to wake up. John has never seen Sherlock so reluctant to wake up; usually he was up and ready to go by 7:00am. It was also increasingly common for John to wake up to violin music at 5 in the morning when Sherlock couldn't sleep for fear of nightmares. So, watching the detective struggling to wake at almost 9:00am was a tad concerning. He knew it had to do with the panic attack, but he's never actually stuck around after a patient panic attack to see the long term effects of it.

"You alright, Sherlock?" he asks softly, still hovering in the doorway.

Sherlock nods heavily, not looking at his boyfriend. "Yeah...just...just trying to wake up...I become absolutely useless after an attack...this is normal." His voice is husky and cracks every now and then, and John feels a pang of sadness watching his beautiful detective so deeply affected by his own mind. He proceeds into the bedroom and sits by his side, pressing the full length his body against Sherlock, who leans into his automatically.

"Here you go, love," John says gently, handing Sherlock a mug of coffee, which the detective takes gratefully. Then, John notices something off about his boyfriend's face.

"What's on your face, Sherlock?" he asks, pushing Sherlock's hair out of his face. The detective flinches back out of reflex, but allows it after a moment.

Sherlock's face is covered with red speckles, heavily concentrated around his eyes and cheekbones. He turns his face away from John's, and the doctor drops his hand.

"It's just the capillaries in my face, John," he says, rather irritably. "They burst when I have panic attacks and I get the little freckles for about a week before they clear up. They look like hell, but it's normal. My normal, anyway."

"They don't look that bad," John says reassuringly. "Just interesting. I've seen it before, but not very often. It's rather rare, or at least uncommon. I didn't quite twig on what it was when I first saw it, that's all."

The detective nods, blinking hard and shaking his head. Some life is returning to his eyes, and he seems to wake up more with every sip of coffee. He was sitting up straighter now, and his usual sense of regality and confidence returns with each passing minute. It did John good to see him back to himself, more or less, even though he knew it was mostly a facade. John can't help but marvel at how the detective masquerades as normal and functioning almost 24/7, even after being reduced to a heaving mess upon a hospital floor not even 16 hours ago. John doesn't think he could ever have that much strength and courage. Yes, he had been in the military and had seen a lot of shit, but he always was relatively healthy. Fighting tooth and nail with his own mind every second of the day, and then appearing normal to everyone else? His grit had nothing on Sherlock's. But the worst thing? Sherlock didn't even know how strong he was.

"Thank you," Sherlock says suddenly, jolting John out of his thoughts. 

"For what, love?" John asks gently.

"For..." Sherlock begins, trailing off as he stares hard at the wall in front of him. "For being...there...for me. I can't remember the last time I had someone with me during a panic attack...or at least was with me in a helpful, nonjudgmental way. It's...it's refreshing, to say the least." Each word came out haltingly, as if speaking was physically painful.

John laughs softly. "It's because I love you, idiot. I always have."

Sherlock's mouth twitches slightly in what John guessed was an attempt at a smile. "I...I love you too, John. Even if...even if I don't show it well enough."

"Where'd you get that idea?" John asks, angling his body to face Sherlock's, his hand resting on his knee. John felt Sherlock repress a slight shudder, and he pulls his hand back quickly.

"No, it's fine, you can put your hand there. It was just unexpected," Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I just mean that sometimes, I feel, that I don't show you how much I love you. I've never actually been _in love_ before, I don't know how to show it. So I just...don't."

John returns his hand to Sherlock's knee, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly. Sherlock's hand finds its way to his, and the detective's spindly fingers grip John's more stocky ones. "It's alright, Sherlock. I know you love me. I can tell from looking at you. And you're doing so well, and I feel absolutely honored that you're doing all this now that I'm here. I know you don't love yourself, and I hope one day that will change, but there is never any doubt in my mind that you love me."

Sherlock's mouth twitches again, and the half-hearted smile stays a fraction of a second longer than the last one.

"Of course," John adds, "it was a little rocky in the beginning. I could never tell if you had any feelings whatsoever towards me, all I had to go on were the little things that you did only for me. I never could crack your facade, and when you made me tell you that I loved you, I was bloody terrified. After that kiss the night before you were admitted...I thought I had fucked things up. That I ruined whatever we had."

Sherlock pulls his gaze from the wall, his surprised eyes finally meeting John's. "Are you serious? I thought I was so incredibly, painfully obvious. I hated it. I felt like you always saw straight through me, and that you never said anything of it because you didn't feel the same."

John laughs out loud, surprising himself. Has he always been that clueless? Has _Sherlock_ always been that clueless? The two of them were right idiots with each other.

"It's not funny, John, it was distressing," Sherlock grumbles bitterly.

"No, it really is rather funny," John says, trying to keep himself from laughing again. "You're quite possibly the smartest man I know, and I'm good at getting a read on people, generally, but the fact that both of us were completely unaware that the other was in love with him is genuinely laughable, you have to admit that."

"Well, I suppose, but I still hated it," Sherlock admits, still having the remnants of a scowl on his face. "It felt so unnatural, being so completely in love and not able to do a bloody thing about it. I don't think I've ever been in love, actually."

"I have, of course, but not like this," John comments, reaching out and twirling one of his boyfriend's ebony curls around his fingers. "There's something...I dunno, _different_ , about this time, and I don't think it's just because you're a man."

Sherlock had laid back down after John started playing with his hair, and he turns over onto his side to face John at this. "Really? What was it, then?"

John shrugs honestly. "I don't know. It's just...more real, more intense. Like the first time, but with some kind of urgency with it or something, like if I don't act now and love you hard enough I'll lose you forever or something. It's stupid, but that's the best way I can put it."

The detective propped himself up onto his elbow, staring hard at John. "I don't think it's stupid. I felt the same. Like if I didn't do something you would leave me. Everyone else had, and that's why it was so horrid not saying anything, I felt like I had everything right in front of me, but I was too bloody terrified of actually _doing_ anything."

John smiles lovingly at his boyfriend, and brushes his thumb across his cheekbones again. "Well, however awful it was, I'm glad that it led here eventually. Even with all this...mess...that we've been in, I still wouldn't trade it for the world. You are my world, in fact."

Sherlock's face turns a bit pink at this, and he sits up suddenly and kisses John deeply, and John can feel every ounce of love behind his lips and he kisses back with just as much urgency as the detective. John usually is able to keep his hands to himself while kissing; he knows how insecure Sherlock is about his body, but something about the kiss made him want _more_.

He gently, ever so gently, slides his hands to Sherlock's waist, his fingers barely touching the detective's skin under his day-old shirt, before slipping his hand under the shirt and resting there at his waist. Sherlock's lips stall, and he pulls back a bit, inhaling sharply. John immediately jerks his hand back, already feeling guilty for pushing his boyfriend's boundaries like that without asking for consent.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"It's fine. Keep...keep doing that," Sherlock says, cutting John off mid-apology. His eyes are unsure, and John's hands stay where they are as the kissing resumes.

The kissing grows more desperate, more passionate, and Sherlock's hands find their way into John's hair, traveling down his back and under his T-shirt, and John feels his skin shiver at the welcome touch. He breaks the kiss and Sherlock pulls the shirt over his head, and at this, John pulls back farther.

"You want this, right? I mean, you're okay with this? This is what you want?" John asks breathlessly. He doesn't want to push Sherlock, not so soon after his panic attack. They had never gotten remotely close to this; the entirety of their relationship has been pretty much fully clothed on Sherlock's part, with the occasional shirtless John at night. John didn't know if Sherlock would ever be ready for anything intimate, and he was willing to wait forever if he needed to. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock was on board when the time came.

"Yes," Sherlock answers, a little too quickly. "This is what I want."

John is still a bit unsure of the veracity of his statement, but he goes in to kiss Sherlock again anyway. Sherlock's hands travel his body quickly and desperately, and John slowly allows his hands to return to his waist, moving his hand further upwards delicately, while Sherlock seems to be out of his mind with the urgency to feel every square inch of John.

Sherlock breaks the kiss to pull his purple button-down up over his head, and he crosses his arms a little in front of his stomach, doubt clouding his mind.

"Are you alright, love?" John asks softly, on the brink of ending the rather disconcerting endeavor.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's just..." Sherlock says, not looking at John. "It's just different. Come here, don't worry about me."

With that, they're kissing again, John's hands hesitatingly roaming over Sherlock's body, his fingertips stuttering across the detective's ribs and spine, and John feels a brief pang of sadness at the fact that Sherlock still had bones sticking out against his skin, even after six months of coerced eating.

Sherlock's breath hitches, and he pulls back once again. John's vision is slightly clouded with lust, and he tries to blink away the sexual tension so he can see the situation properly.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do this," John says gently. "If you're not ready for this, we can--"

"I think I'm asexual." Sherlock blurts out suddenly, cutting John off mid-sentence. 

John blinks, not expecting that answer. "What do you mean by that? Asexual, what is that?"

Sherlock inhales, staring at his hands, his fingers curled into nervous fists. "I don't feel sexual attraction. I...I never have. I thought it would be different with you, but it's not. I don't know what's wrong with me, I just...I just don't like the idea of sex."

John finds this difficult to process; as a man in his late forties, sexual attraction is a long-since established facet of his life. How could someone _not_ feel sexual attraction? Isn't that a basic fact of biology, the urge to reproduce?

"Why do you feel like that?" he asks, trying to understand. "Is it...do you just not like your body, and you don't want sex because of that? Is it the medication? I don't really understand that."

Sherlock's hands tighten into deeper fists, and he keeps his eyes downcast. "I don't know. I've just never been interested. I thought I was aromantic for awhile--not feeling romantic attraction either--but that changed with you, and I thought maybe I would want to be intimate with you, but...I guess not. I still love you," he adds hastily, "but I don't feel anything sexual for you. It's not you, it's just how I am."

John still isn't sure he comprehends this correctly, but he knows better than to shit on someone's identity. "I know you love me, and it's okay if you don't want sex, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do. Is kissing okay though? I mean, what is the line that we can't cross? What constitutes as sexual for you?"

"Kissing is okay," Sherlock says, appearing relieved that John wasn't making a big deal about it. "And so is cuddling, and holding hands, just not anything to do with sex. Making out is kind of pushing it, but as long as we don't have to have sex, I'm okay."

"Of course. Anything for you, love. We don't have to do anything you don't want to." John says softly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, almost a whisper. "It means a lot to me. More than you ever know."

John just smiles kindly, and lays back down on the bed, pulling Sherlock down with him and locking him in a warm embrace.

"Do you...do you think that will be okay forever?" Sherlock murmurs into John's neck. "I know you have...urges...and I can't satisfy them. Is that going to be a problem? Am I going to have to...I don't know, share you?" The last two words came out shakily, and John can feel his irregular breathing under his hands.

John pushed Sherlock away slightly, just far enough so he can make eye contact. "Never, my love. I'm yours, and yours alone. I can...make do. The internet is a wonderful place," he says with a wink. "Unless that bothers you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I never had a taste for it myself, the whole process was rather disappointing, but I understand that you're not like that, and I can't ask you to become completely celibate just for me. It's just a foreign concept, is all."

"Good, then. See? We make things work," John says with a smile. "I would bend over backwards and tie myself into a knot to make you feel loved. And if I have to give up sex with another person, so be it."

"Thank you," the detective says, a definite note of relief in his voice.

"Anything for you, love." John says, trying to put as much kindness and as much love as he could into those four words. Sure, John had indeed fantasized about sex with Sherlock, but if he didn't want it, there was no point in pushing it. If all he got from this point on is a bottle of lotion and some tissues, it wouldn't matter, because he already has more than enough love from Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you want to try that case again?" John asks, rather suddenly. "We don't have to, I just thought you might want to try to get back into the game. Get back onto the horse, so to say."

Sherlock is quiet, seemingly deep in thought. After a few seconds, he replies, "Maybe. I don't like giving up, I never have, but there was something so damn _humiliating_ about that. I have no fucking clue what Donovan is going to say, and if I get one more pitying look from Grant or Gabe or whatever his name is, we might be looking at a completely different murder case."

John nods thoughtfully, trying to find the right words to assuage Sherlock's concerns. "Well, like it or not, people will treat you differently now. And I'm not saying that's right or a good thing to do, quite the opposite in fact, but you know they're not going to forget about this anytime soon, and you're going to need to be able to cope with it. The staring, the patronizing, the sidelong glances. It'll ease up one day, but not for a long time. And I'm sorry about that. I just don't know what I personally can do about it. I hope you understand."

"It's fine." Sherlock says quietly. He was so damn ready to start a new life. That's what moving to London had been about: running from his problems to a place where no one knew how broken he was. But now that was ruined. Now people _knew._

"Alright then," John says, stretching a bit before getting up from the bed. "We best be at it, I'll ring Lestrade and tell him you're still on the case. Ready in about 15 minutes?"

Sherlock nods, and downs the rest of his now room-temperature coffee. John exits the room, and Sherlock gets up, his muscles and joints protesting. After panic attacks, he was always left so terribly sore and his muscles ached for days. He was used to it, but it had been awhile since his last full-fledged attack, and the painful tenderness wasn't exactly welcome.

He slips on his coat and ties his scarf, trying to feel normal again. He needed to get back into his usual mindset if he were going to make it through the case emotionally intact. A few deep breaths, and Sherlock starts to slip back into his old personality again.

20 minutes later, the two were back in Scotland Yard, and Sherlock's heart was about to hammer out of his chest. His grip on John's hand was a bit tight, and he had to force himself to relax his muscles every few minutes. It was so unlike him to be so rattled, but after yesterday, most of his confidence had been shattered.

As they enter the room, the group goes silent, and gives the detective that silent stare of judgement. He glares at them, and they hurriedly go back to their work. Donovan lets her eyes linger a bit more, her eyes carrying a wicked glint in them, making Sherlock's stomach turn uneasily.

"So, has the boy been seen yet?" Sherlock asks, trying to force some authority into his tone.

"No, we haven't," Lestrade says, thankfully speaking to and looking at Sherlock as he normally would. "We were waiting for you. We--well, _I_ put the case on hold until I heard back for sure whether you were still on the case or not."

"Thank you, that was much appreciated," Sherlock says evenly, hoping that Lestrade would take his words to heart. So far it seemed like this bloke was the only one treating him normally at this point. "Let's get to it then. Where did you say the boy lived, again?"

"Fulham. Short drive, but we only have two cars, so we'll just take non-essential personnel--"

"No, John and I can do it ourselves," Sherlock interrupts.

Lestrade stops talking, holding his hands up in surrender. "Alright. You're in charge here, I'll consider this not my division until you get back."

On one hand, Sherlock was grateful for the grant of freedom and agency, but on the other, he didn't want special treatment. He knew Lestrade was trying to be helpful and kind, so he decided he'd take what he could get at this point. After yesterday's fiasco, he was just thankful he had a hand in the case at all.

"Thank you. Let's go," Sherlock says, taking John's hand and turning to leave. So far, no one had said anything about him and John's obvious relationship, but it was becoming apparent that everyone had known and called it before John and he even considered it a possibility.

"You handled it well in there," John murmurs, just loud enough for his boyfriend to hear. "You're going to be back to your old self in no time."

"I hope so," the detective replies, equally as soft. "I'm feeling better now, I just hope it stays that way."

"It will," John says, with a strong note of certainty in his voice. "It's the anticipation that's the worst part, everything else is surprisingly easy once you bite the bullet and dive in."

Sherlock was grateful for John's optimism; it does get so terribly exhausting being a pessimist. Even if he doesn't always believe what John says, it was nice to have a constant positive note in his life, keeping his negativity in check.

The car ride is made with comfortable chatter and joking, and Sherlock feels more and more life and vigor settling into him, and he relaxes into the easy rhythm of working a case. As they approach the boy's house, Sherlock pops his collar and settles his face into his usual expression, and John can't help but find the show he puts on rather hilarious. Always the drama queen, that Sherlock.

The interview with the boy proved to be rather disappointing; all Sherlock could glean was what he had already been told: cat goes missing, and then the cat returns. They had given the cat a bath since it had returned, so Sherlock wasn't able to deduce much from just looking at the cat. It had behaved oddly, shrinking away from people in fear, as well as staring intently into space before freaking out and running to safety. Sherlock wasn't as cat behaviorist, and Cluedo never had fits like that, so he didn't quite know what the significance of it is. The cat had been covered in mud and debris, he had been told, but that could be easily chalked up to having gone missing for 2 weeks.

The case was simple, in theory, so the detective was rather frustrated at the fruitlessness of the interview and at his inner voice chanting _failure! useless! freak!_ at a constant, disheartening tempo.

As they returned to the flat, Sherlock tries to force all his negative feelings away so that he can enjoy winding down with John. It had been a routine with them: after a long day, or any day, really, they would settle down in the living room with a film and Cluedo, and decompress from the day. This always helped Sherlock when he was having a rough metal health day, and today was no different.

"I'm really proud of you, love," John whispers in his ear after they had settled down onto the couch. "Even if today didn't give you the results you wanted, you kept at it, and you kept it together. That's progress."

It didn't _feel_ like progress, but after considering that six and a half months ago he was in a mental hospital with fresh cuts torn down his arms, things are quite a lot better than it used to be.

 And that was, well, progress. Progress he never thought he could make.

But he did. And that was pretty damn special.


	12. Christmas Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I'm working on an actual chapter as well, but here's a Christmas chapter to tide you all over! Sorry it's so late, but I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaas, Yule, or whatever it is you celebrate!
> 
> -Wren

_Sherlock_

 

It was Christmas Eve, and the flat truly looked it.

They had put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving, and done their Christmas shopping the next Monday. Decorations and outside lights came in the first week or so of December, and presents from friends and neighbors started accumulating under the heavily-adorned tree a week and a half ago.

Sherlock enjoyed Christmas, even though he knew it was just consumerism thinly veiled by religious fanaticism, and he enjoyed how much John enjoyed it as well.

Growing up fairly well-off meant that Christmas could always be afforded, and Sherlock and his siblings always received what they wanted (within reason--he remembers one year being horribly disappointed in not receiving the same type of live dragon he read about in one of his fantasy novels), and it had been largely a positive event in his life.

Sherlock knew John wasn't nearly as well off as he had been, but John seemed fairly captivated by it, and somehow seemed more into it than Sherlock ever had been.

Still, it was their second Christmas as a couple, and this time Sherlock was not in a hospital for it. That's reason enough to celebrate, Sherlock thinks.

They were hosting a party, as they usually did for Christmas Eve. Last year was no exception, but according to John it did seem rather hollow without Sherlock there. Molly was indeed disappointed, he had heard. This year, hopefully, promised more fun and enjoyment now that he was home.

It wasn't going to be as big of a gathering as usual, just Sherlock, John, Molly, Greg, and a brief appearance from Mycroft. Sherlock never really liked most of the others that showed up, and John had suggested a smaller gathering this year, so the rest were cut from the list. More intimate functions were his speed; there was just less anxiety with less people.

People were supposed to start arriving in less than an hour, at 7:00, and John was busy in the kitchen finishing up the food. It was mainly just hors d'oeuvres, but John was dead set on making a Christmas turkey that year. He had started cooking it at noon, and it was looking like it wouldn't be ready for another hour. He could tell John was stressing about it, but he didn't really know how to help with that. Comforting people wasn't really his strong suit, and he felt guilty because he knows that John would drop anything and everything just to make him feel better.

"Do you need any help with that?" he asks, walking over to the kitchen.

"Um, I'm not sure," John says, pulling the meat thermometer from the bird. "It just needs to keep cooking. You were a real help earlier today with the hors d'oeuvres while I was with the turkey, but all there's left to do is wait, I suppose. Everything else is done, the table set and the string lights on, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, still feeling a bit useless.

"Thank you. I think it'll be alright, worse case scenario is that it'll take a bit and everyone can just have the hors d'oeuvres in the meantime." John says, standing and placing the thermometer on the counter, then closing the oven again.

"Sounds good then," Sherlock says, awkwardly clasping his hands together and turning to walk away.

"Hey, come here."

Sherlock feels two arms slide around his waist and cross in front of him, closely followed by the warmth of John's body pressed up behind him. The detective smiles, resting his hands on John's. The fact that John's arms still crosses easily around his midsection did not escape him, but he mainly just enjoyed being touched by John. It was new, the appreciation for physical contact, but it was welcome.

A knock at the door is heard, and his boyfriend releases him. John crosses the room to answer the door. He opens the door, and exchanges greetings and hugs with the guest. Sherlock recognizes Molly's voice.

"Hello John! I know I'm a bit early; I overestimated traffic a smidge and ended up getting here a few minutes ahead of schedule." she says, stepping across the threshold.

"Hello, Sherlock." Molly says softly, not quite discreetly giving the detective a once-over. Sherlock represses an uncomfortable squirm, feeling very much on display. The fitted suit he was wearing had to be altered to fit him this year, and he was still very touchy about it.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock replies, giving her a once-over as well. A new dress, but not too revealing; her bag held a a few gifts that look to be professionally wrapped; she was wearing perfume, but not too much; and her makeup accentuated everything the way it should without being over the top. It was obvious she was taking precautions to avoid being deduced and called out on her attempt to impress Sherlock. He knew she still fancied him, but she had respectfully backed off once she found out he and John were an item, which Sherlock appreciated.

She smiles at him fondly before handing her gifts and coat to John. 

"It's nice to see you looking so well. We really missed you last year," she says, still smiling.

"I...thank you..." Sherlock says, a little uncertainly. "I missed being here last year as well. It's good to see you too, Molly."

Molly takes a step forward and hugs Sherlock, something she had never done before. He finds his arms around her almost reflexively. She squeezes him tightly, then pulls back, a little too quickly.

"I'm sorry, that was rather forward. I just...we missed you a lot--I missed you a lot. And I was terribly worried about you. It's just nice to see you looking well." 

"No, it's fine. I just wasn't aware it...impacted others so greatly." Sherlock admits, not meeting Molly's eye.

"Of course it did, Sherlock, we lo--"

Molly is cut off by another knock, and the conversation is halted by the rest of the guests entering the room.

Much hello-ing and hugging and laughing is offered, and Sherlock finds himself among them, feeling for once in his life as if he belongs somewhere, that he is not merely tolerated, but liked, even loved, and it feels wonderful.

"Oh, these cracker things are lovely, did you make them, Sherlock?" Lestrade says through a mouthful of food.

"Oh, yes, actually. The turkey isn't quite ready, so help yourself until it is," he replies, gesturing at the table with plates of finger food on it.

Lestrade places several hors d'oeuvres on a plate and hands it to Sherlock, who takes it reluctantly. "Have you had any yet? They're very good."

"I haven't, actually, but I'm not really all that hungry..." Sherlock tries to protest, staring at the food on his plate. He had intended to eat at the party, but after googling how many calories a tiny hors d'oeuvre could pack, his resolve weakened with every passing moment. Not to mention the turkey and the cider and the champagne and the cake afterwards....it was too much. He couldn't do it.

"Oh. Well, aren't you supposed to be eating more now?"Lestrade asks quizzically.

Sherlock's head shot up to meet his eyes. "Who told you that?"

"Well, no one _told_ me, but word is that you have some sort of, I don't know, food problem, of sorts? It's not my business, but I just thought--"

"You're correct, it's not your business." Sherlock interrupts icily. 

Lestrade shrugs, unbothered. "And your whole deducing bit you do is none of yours either. You eat what you'd like, but I'm pretty sure John would want you to eat something."

Sherlock feels a muscle in his cheek start to jump, and he forces himself to take a breath and relax his grip on the plate. "What John wants of me is his business. Go on and mingle now, Craig."

"It's Greg, and okay." he says, walking off.

Sherlock returns his gaze to the food. It's Christmas, and he's supposed to be having a good time. Surely he could stomach a few extra calories tonight.

It was rather strange, having an eating disorder and being in active recovery from it. He always felt as if he had a limit he couldn't eat past, but a limit for what? He wasn't going to be able to lose weight anymore, and he wasn't really going to be able to maintain anymore either. So why is he obsessing over his limit when there's no reason to have one? Yes, he feared gaining weight more than anything, but it was going to happen--hell, it _is_ happening, so why can't he just say fuck it, and eat?

"You doing alright, love?" John asks, appearing beside him.

Sherlock's eyes snap up to John's. "Yes, I'm doing alright. Lestrade was just...testing my patience."

His boyfriend laughs. "Yes, he does that to us all. Anyway, I just asked because you're looking at those crackers a little intensely. You don't have to have the hors d'oeuvres, but I'd like you to try some turkey later on. When they leave you can have whatever you'd like in return. Within reason."

Sherlock nods, and then forces himself to speak his next words. "I think I'll have some anyway. And the turkey. Maybe the champagne too."

John smiles, and it makes the detective feel oddly inside. A mixture of guilt, pride, and love. "I'm proud of you, love. Eat whatever you feel you can."

So he did. He silenced the voice he had inside telling him to starve, and ate. And ate. And ate.

It wasn't a lot, given how his stomach had shrunk, but he ate enough to where his stomach hurt, and with each bite he felt more and more out of control. He was full, so why couldn't he stop?!

When John finally announced that the turkey was ready, time stood still for Sherlock.

Looking at that bird, all he could see were calories. 200 calories in one serving of turkey breast, over 1,000 calories in one leg, and that was assuming he could stop eating after that. His fists clench, and while John is carving the turkey, he steals away into the bathroom.

He read a news report once of a bulimic girl who met her end kneeled in front of the toilet. She had gorged herself to the point of food coming back up her esophagus when she swallowed, and the act of purging ruptured her stomach and bowels and she died on the spot. Naked, bruised, and covered in her own vomit, blood, and feces was how she was found by her mother. Autopsies showed that her stomach had pushed its way up her ribcage and displaced her other organs to accommodate the sheer amount of food she ate. He hated that he thought this, but his first thought when he read this was just that she was _weak_. If she wanted to lose weight so bad, why didn't she just quit eating? Didn't she know she can't lose weight when she's eating enough to sustain a family, even though she's vomiting it back up? Disgusting. Pathetic. _Weak_.

But in this moment, Sherlock felt pretty close to what he thought the girl must have felt in her last moments.

He had been purging for close to fifteen minutes. He had gotten everything up in the first ten, but he couldn't stop raking his fingers down the back of his throat, obsessed with getting each tiny morsel of food out of his body and down the toilet. His knuckles bled, his throat was raw, and snot and tears dripped off his face and blurred his vision. Nothing but bile was coming up, but the detective knew the statistic that stated you could only purge up to 80% of what you ate, but goddammit, _he had to get everything out._

A knock at the door startles him, and fear rushes into his system as he freezes where he is, his fingers still partway in his mouth.

"Sherlock, are you in there?"

It was Molly.

He knows he's been caught, surely they must have noticed his nearing 20 minute absence. The only thing he can do now is make her go away long enough to collect himself.

He clears his throat and swallows, trying to make his voice come out smoothly. "Yes, I'm in here. Give me a minute."

He begins to start wiping his hands and mouth and flushes the toilet, and like a well-oiled machine, becomes presentable in a matter of seconds.

He opens the door to Molly standing outside, he eyes tearful and distraught.

"You know, I've been standing here for ten minutes listening to you making yourself sick." Her voice shakes with sadness, her lower lip trembling.

Sherlock feels like his heart stops, and he opens his mouth to speak.

"No, don't even say anything to defend yourself, Sherlock. I thought you were doing better. John said you were doing better."

"Did John tell you about...what was going on with me?" Sherlock says carefully, already irritated with the breach of privacy.

"I was in the hospital when you tried to kill yourself. I know all about it. I just never said anything because it wasn't my place. But I can't just let you keep destroying yourself. Do you know what would happen if you died and left John? You know what happened when you left the first time. Do you really think he could survive a second time? He tried to kill himself too, you know. A few weeks after you jumped."

"I know." Sherlock says quietly. "I didn't see it, but I heard about it. After."

"Then why are you in here, throwing up the lovely meal you made, when you should be out there with him telling him that you feel so terribly?" Molly's eyes are hard and tears are freely flowing, her hands tightened into fists.

"You... _know_...how I feel about you." she says, her voice tight. "So you should know that it kills me to see you hurting. I know people aren't very nice to you, and that you don't have a lot of people in your corner. But _I'm_ here for you. _John_ is here for you. Don't you _fucking_ waste that."

Molly wipes her eyes, careful not to smear her makeup. "Get back out there and go back to John. Tell him what you did after we leave, or I will. I will not have you hurting yourself on Christmas Eve."

Sherlock nods mutely, still in shock. Yes, he knew Molly cared for him. But she had never been so vocal about it before now. 

He makes his way back to the living room, leaving Molly in the bathroom to collect herself. John is busy talking to Mycroft, who had apparently just arrived. John excuses himself and walks over to Sherlock, worry already creasing itself into the furrow of his brow.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock lies. 

John gives him a hard stare.

"We'll talk after. I'm fine for now." Sherlock repeats himself.

His boyfriend smiles thinly and nods. "All right. After."

Sherlock is then accosted by Mycroft, and is kept busy with him for about half an hour before he had to go again. He was on his way to visit their parents, and Sherlock declined visiting once again. His brother had been near begging him to go, as he hadn't seen them in over a year, but Sherlock doesn't want to worry them, as they know nothing of the recent goings-on. Sherlock was grateful that Mycroft kept his privacy to such a degree, if nothing else.

Molly returns, and it's as if nothing happened. She stays within eyeshot of him, but doesn't smother him. 

And, despite everything, Sherlock has a wonderful time. He doesn't eat anything else, but after about an hour after his purging session, he finds himself swept up in the holiday spirit, and things are fine.

He knows he'll have to have a serious and uncomfortable conversation with John later, but it's nothing that he hasn't done before. 

So he lets go, and he makes merry.

 

 


	13. Recovery is a Staircase, Not an Uphill Slope

_Sherlock_

 

The case was over as suddenly as it began. It was rather simple, but it took Sherlock a little longer than usual due to him being out of the game for so long. Turns out there was some sick teenager in the neighborhood stealing pets, then mutilating and killing them. The little boy's cat was just lucky enough to escape. The teen's excuse was just that he "wanted to see what happened." He was taken away in cuffs.

Although he had never outright killed anything, Sherlock identified somewhat with the teenager. When he was younger, he would go out and dissect roadkill in his neighborhood, and take home bones and teeth and such to examine later. Everyone called him a freak, but he couldn't help his insatiable curiosity of what happened after death. He would never know what his own bones and skin and organs would look like when he was gone, so he studied other things after they died. Knowing that he would one day end up like this, all rotted and decayed, didn't exactly comfort him, but at least he knew what he would end up as.

Again, he had never killed anything, and he didn't plan on it. But he knew, at least on some level, that he and the teenager had seen and felt similar things.

They were in the flat now, watching a film, and he is holding Cluedo a bit too tightly, his fingers stroking through her fur a little obsessively, but the sweet thing didn't seem to mind.

"You alright, love?" John's voice was a gentle rumble in his ears. Sherlock nods, his head moving against the cotton of John's sweater. They were cuddled on the couch together, and the only thing grounding the detective was the warmth and weight of his boyfriend's arms around him.

"Yes," Sherlock says quietly, not entirely truthfully. "I just was a little...I don't know, rattled? I didn't like the thought of our Cluedo ending up in the hands of someone like that boy. It's silly, I know, and I wouldn't have even considered having empathy for the animals if it weren't for your bleeding heart bringing home a stray animal and forcing me to fall in love with it."

The last bit was said with a smile, Sherlock knew Cluedo had wormed her way into his heart all on her own. John laughs softly, his hands finding their way to Sherlock's head, stroking the side of his neck in a way that made his skin turn into gooseflesh.

Sherlock turns over with some difficulty, looking directly into John's eyes. "Doesn't it get exhausting? The whole empathy thing? I've never seen the point of it, but after today I just can't believe how exhausting it is to care about something as simple as a cat, even thought Cluedo wasn't in the least bit of danger."

He had expected John to laugh and poke fun at him for not being able to process basic human emotion, but his boyfriend stayed silent, looking off to the side and appearing to ponder it genuinely.

"I mean, it does, to be honest," John admits, flicking his gaze down to meet Sherlock's. "In the army, you can't really afford to have empathy for people who might not be by your side the next day. It's just a fact of life. You learn to become detached, not forming any real bonds for fear of having that person taken from you, or you from them. Coming back and relearning how to care about people and how to feel things again...it was difficult. I don't think I had properly cared for anyone since I discharged until I met you."

"I don't think I did either," Sherlock said quietly, trying to go through his mental databases and find even a sliver of what he felt for John before he met him. Nothing.

"Well, I'm extremely honored," John says, a little teasingly. The way his eyes softened when he looked at Sherlock made the detective wonder if his eyes did the same. 

Actually, he didn't really have a good idea of what he looked like at all. He hated himself, and that made looking in the mirror quite an unpleasant event. He could identify himself in a photograph, of course, but he had never really taken a proper look at himself without feeling a deep sense of revulsion that would just about ruin his day.

"What are you thinking about, love?" John asks softly, bringing Sherlock back into the present moment.

"Could you..." the detective falters, feeling a bit silly. "Could you, er...describe me? What I look like? What I actually look like, I mean."

John seems slightly surprised, but not at all judgmental. "Of course I can. What do you want me to describe? Just all of you?"

"How about...just my face?" Sherlock asks. He's not sure if he's up for a description of his body at this time. He knows he's gained weight, but he doesn't want to know how noticeable it is.

"Alright," John agrees. "Let's see..."

Sherlock doesn't quite know where to look, where his eyes should go, so he just turns his attention to Cluedo while still leaving his face observable.

"I have to say, the first thing I noticed when I first med you were your cheekbones. No, I'm serious!" John says, the last bit after a scoff of disbelief from the detective.

"My cheekbones? God, you're insufferable." Sherlock says, his cheeks tinting the slightest bit pink.

"Oi, you're not allowed to talk. You asked me to to describe you, so I am. Shut your lovely mouth, please."

Sherlock obliges, returning his attention to the kitten resting on his stomach.

"Speaking of lips, I noticed those right away too. They've got this perfect Cupid's bow; I don't think it's even legal to have such perfect lips. I cannot believe I spent 6 years staring at your lips and still thought I was straight."

Sherlock laughs softly at this. He was never one for labels, but he knew from a rather young age that he wasn't entirely straight. The thought didn't plague him like it does so many others, but it was just a fact. Sherlock Holmes is not straight. He never had a boyfriend or girlfriend or any sort of significant other to prove it, but he knew what he liked. And he liked John.

"I love your hair, too," John continues, letting his hand gently card through Sherlock's curly locks. "It's just so soft-looking, with perfect curls and it falls so nicely about your face. I like the deep raven color of it as well, it's very striking when paired with your, um, rather _fair_ complexion."

"You can just say I'm pale, John, it's a common fact."

"Pale? Translucent, more like," John teases, running his thumb over the detective's cheekbones.

Sherlock makes an offended noise, a smile betraying him as he focuses once again on Cluedo. It didn't feel horrible, having John describe him like this. He's not sure what expected; he knew John wouldn't say anything cruel about him. He wouldn't say anything untrue, either, which is what he guesses made him a little nervous about the request.

"You keep interrupting me. Where was I? Oh, your hair. It's lovely. Not quite as lovely as your eyes, I must say. They look blue, but after closer inspection they're a myriad of colors. Green, grey, blue, with just a tad of some golden brown tucked away in there."

"It's called heterochromia," Sherlock interrupts again. "I've had it all my life, it's one of the only things I do like about myself."

"It's very lovely, yes," John agrees. "Those are the main points of your face. Shall I move on?"

"No." Sherlock says, a bit too quickly. Although he enjoys having John compliment him, he was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with it. Logically, he knew John wouldn't lie to him or make anything up. But he couldn't stop the deep, prickly feeling that made him question everything he said. _Nothing good lasts here_ , he thinks bitterly.

"Alright, I'll stop then," John says gently. "I hope you know, though, that I wouldn't say anything that I didn't believe to be true."

Sherlock nods. "Yes, I know. Just...doubts. Always doubts."

Sherlock turns over again, pressing his back closer into John's chest. His boyfriend settles his fingers into the detective's hair once more, lightly scratching his scalp.

"I understand. We all have doubts, I know I do."

Sherlock nods, not quite sure what to say. Sometimes it was easy to fall into the mindset that _he_ was the broken one, and John is the infallible protector with no faults. He knew, logically, that John must have some insecurities and doubts, but he largely doesn't think about it. He wanted to say something along the lines of "I'm more fucked up than you so you can't possibly understand how I feel", but he knew that wasn't true. He was, admittedly, more fucked up than John, but he knew that that didn't mean that John didn't have the right to feel badly about himself at times.

They sit on the couch for a long while, much after the sun had set and the streetlights filled the flat with an orangey light, painting the furniture in rich golds and yellows, stretching the shadows until they were unrecognizable from the object that cast it.

Sherlock feels himself slowly slipping into sleep, and he feels a slight pang of guilt for trapping John on the couch, but he allows his senses to drop off until he was in that wonderful twilight between sleep and wakefulness. Nothing could hurt him as long as he felt like this.

Presently, he feels John carefully extract himself from behind him, keeping a hand on his back to keep him from falling into the spot John vacated. Then, to his surprise, he feels John pick him up delicately and easily, bringing him back to the bedroom.

"I can do this by myself, I don't need..." Sherlock sleepily protests, trying to push John away a bit. It felt a little embarrassing, being carried to bed like a child that fell asleep in the car.

"Hush," John said firmly, yet fondly. "It's okay to let people do things for you."

Sherlock slumped back down, his eyes shuttering closed again. Embarrassed or not, he still felt a sick sense of glee at the thought of still being light enough to be carried so easily by someone shorter than him.

He feels himself being laid in the bed, his dressing gown being pulled off and cast aside, as John sinks into bed with him, spooning him and holding him closely.

"I love you," John whispers in his ear.

"I love you too," he says sleepily, thoroughly loving the feeling of John's arms wrapped around him.

John's whispered "goodnight" did not reach the detective, as he had fallen soundly asleep.

 

***

 

_John_

 

Sherlock was doing better.

John seldom allowed himself the hopeful optimism that he wanted when thinking about the detective. It seemed like every time he allowed himself to feel hope about the situation, Sherlock would enter the bedroom with bloodied arms, or he would walk in on him feverishly exercising on the floor of the bathroom. It was rather exhausting, but John couldn't imagine how much harder it would be for Sherlock to constantly live like this, for years upon years.

But there was no denying it. Sherlock was doing better. His relapses were fewer and farther between, and he was less than a stone away from being in a healthy weight range. Mentally, John knew that it was still a battlefield for him. But at least he wasn't in physical danger anymore. And John doesn't think he's as suicidal anymore either. It's difficult for Sherlock to open up about such feelings, but he doesn't have that same desolate, dead look in his eyes anymore. And that was progress.

Even though he's a doctor, John doesn't really know how long it'll take before they're out of the woods, if ever. He knows recovery is lifelong, but knowing that and living that are two very different things.

John slowly untangles himself from Sherlock, careful not to wake him up as he disengages. It was still rather early, perhaps around 8:45 in the evening, and he still had some paperwork to do before the week was over. He no longer felt anxious about leaving his boyfriend alone in the bedroom anymore; he had grown fairly confident in Sherlock's ability to come find him if he felt the need to hurt himself.

He opens his laptop, enters his passcode and waits for it to boot up. It always took forever, but whoever had used it last had completely shut it down, so it took even longer. He doesn't remember shutting it down last night, but he knows that Sherlock uses it at times, and thought it was probably him. Why the bloke didn't get his own laptop was beyond him.

Finally, the computer starts up. John opens a new window and clicks on the History tab; he needed the pages he was looking at yesterday. 

The search history brought his light mood down to the ground in less than a second

_calories in earl grey tea_

_calories in earl grey tea with honey_

_calories in honey_

_how many calories does toothpaste have_

_how many calories burned in 30mins walking_

_carbs in fruit salad_

_nutrition facts of salsa_

_next page  (23 more recent searches) >>_

John sighs deeply. Sherlock is getting better, but he's still struggling. John figures he couldn't get the history to clear on this ancient thing, and tried shutting it down instead. He rests his elbows on the table and rubs his eyes tiredly. It's no use confronting him about it; what was he supposed to do? Monitor his internet use as if he were a child? John knows he's been eating and keeping it down for the most part, and coming to him when he's spun up about something, so there's really not much more he can ask of him. If looking up nutrition facts of salsa is something that makes him feel more in control, then John couldn't really fault him. It was just...discouraging, nonetheless.

John screenshots the search history, all of it, and sends the images to his phone, before deleting the screenshots from the computer and clearing the history. He kept the photos for documentation, but clears the history for the sake of Sherlock's fragile state. It's a funny sort of compromise, but John does his best to meet Sherlock halfway.

Trying to move on from the disappointment and sadness he felt from Sherlock's search history, he logs into his account and starts on the paperwork. It didn't take long, but by the time he had submitted the last page, he was tired and ready to go to bed. He logs off, and turns his laptop off. His eyes hurt from staring at the screen; perhaps he should get reading glasses with a blue light filter.

He tiredly stands, and makes his way to the bedroom. Sherlock is a still lump under the covers, and John takes a moment to stare hard at his form, trying to discern a breathing pattern. Ever since that night that Sherlock almost died, he's had the compulsion to watch him while sleeping to make sure he was still breathing. The lump moves softly, and John is visibly put at ease. 

He undresses and crawls into bed with Sherlock, settling on his side so they were back to back. He feels his boyfriend unconsciously move closer, and John relished the warmth of Sherlock's body pressed against him.

Sleep soon overtakes him, and he drifts into a restful sleep.

 

***

 

_Sherlock_

 

He can't see clearly, but he knows what he's looking at is horrifying.

It's John, kneeling on the ground, cradling Sherlock's body on the pavement. He realizes he can't see because his vision is clouded with blood, dripping from his fringe into his eyes. He tries to raise his hand to wipe it out of his face, but he finds himself frozen on the spot, only able to breathe and blink.

The sounds coming out of John's mouth are wretched, broken, and it's the worst sound Sherlock has ever heard in his life. 

Sherlock strains his eyes to look at his surroundings, and remembers where he is. The Barts hospital, where he faked his death so many years ago. John is crying, holding Sherlock's broken body and the detective is filled with horror and sadness and fear.

Suddenly, he feels a lurching sensation and the scene vanishes.

It's John again, but he's in his flat that he lived in after Baker Street. He holds a gun to his head, his eyes squeezed shut as he pulls the trigger. Sherlock is deafened by the sound, and he wakes up with a start.

His body hurts from the tension he held during the dream, and his jaw aches from clenching his teeth. His face is wet with tears, and the detective dissolves into silent sobs as he tries to rid the dream from his mind. He's become quite good at crying almost unnoticeably, but it had been awhile since he had cried like this. He usually felt so empty, but he's full out sobbing now, and it hurt everywhere to keep it contained. He claps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from making noise, and he tightened his body to suppress the sobs wracking his body. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that his face hurt, but the image of John dead on the floor had burned itself into his minds eye, with no escaping it.

He needs to cut. Right now.

Sherlock manages to get a handle on the crying long enough to get out of bed, trying not to wake John as the mattress creaks under the displaced weight. He staggers to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, making sure to lock it.

He collapses on the floor, and pulls a towel down from the rack to muffle his cries. He cries until he's certain there's no more tears left in the world for him to cry, and after a few minutes he is left an empty husk of a person on the bathroom floor. His face hurt, his stomach hurt, everything hurt except for his soul, which remained completely numb. He needs to cut.

Sherlock strains to hear if John is awake, but he can't discern where he is from this far away. He figures he would have come to find him if he knew he was missing, so he was safe to cut.

 _Safe to cut._ What a ridiculous nightmare he lived in that made that phrase completely sensical to him.

Moving felt like breaking his bones out of a concrete mold, but he managed to reach his drawer in the bathroom vanity, and pull out his shaving razor.

Recently John had allowed him to keep a razor in the bathroom for shaving. He had been clean for about a month prior to this particular allowance, and the deal was that he could have one razor with one set of blades, and if he wanted to replace it with a sharper razor, he would have to return the dull one. The aim was to make the idea of cutting less desirable when the fact that John would find out when he wasn't able to shave anymore came to light.

But Sherlock was clever. Surely he could figure out how to take the razor apart, cut, and then put it back together seamlessly, right? And yes, he was perfectly capable of doing such, and he had done it many times, but that was with a higher end, reusable razor set. All John had given him were the cheap plastic disposable kind that would require breaking to access the blades inside.

Sherlock discards the razor onto the floor and feverishly searches the bathroom as quietly as he can, trying to find even one blade that John hadn't managed to find and confiscate. Under the sink taped to the ceiling of the cupboard, inside the power outlet cover, and inside the shower rod had been his go-to for hiding spots, but somehow John had found them all.

So breaking the razor it is, then.

He picks up the razor from the floor and examines it. Surely there would be a loophole, some way to extract the blades and then replace them. 

But there isn't.

His hands shake as he twists and snaps the razor, careful to keep his fingers out of the way. That last bit was ridiculous; why bother protecting your fingers when you're about to open up a vein??

The razors eventually snaps free, and two perfect little blades fall onto the bathroom floor. They're going to be harder to hold than a full blade, but he's past caring. He tests the razor on the inside of his wrists, just barely scratching the skin. He knows he should wake John up. He knows he's capable of putting the blades down before he could do more damage. He knows he's going to break John's heart, and maybe even drive John to leave him.

But he needs to cut. Badly.

He makes a decision. He inhales, holds his breath, and brings the blade across his wrist heavily. Blood beads up out of the cut, and run down his arm after a few seconds. The sight of it gives him a slight high, and he poises his blade to cut a second time before he's interrupted by a knock on the door, dropping the blade in surprise.

"Sherlock, you in there? Are you alright?" John's voice is heard on the other side of the door, and Sherlock prays he didn't hear the soft clatter of the razor hitting the tile floor.

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock says, trying to sound as normal as possible. His throat was still scratchy from crying, but at least his voice didn't break.

"You've been in there awhile, love, I'm worried. Please, come back to bed?"

"I'll be there in a minute. I'm fine." Sherlock lies. He glances at his wrist, where blood was still running freely down his forearm. If he stops now he can probably get away with it. There was still the issue of obtaining a new razor before his scruff becomes noticeable, but he'll burn that bridge when he comes to it.

John is silent for a moment, but Sherlock can hear him shift his weight, still outside the door.

"Are you cutting again?" he asks, his voice wavering slightly.

"No." Sherlock answers, a little too quickly.

"Don't lie to me, love. I'm not going to be mad. I just don't want to stand out here while you hurt yourself."

Sherlock is quiet. The blood had stopped flowing, and had coagulated into a red jelly. This one would definitely scar, but it wasn't nearly as deep as some of his others.

"Okay. I am. I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

He hears John sigh, and he can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose and running his hand through his hair. Guilt and shame eat at the detective, and he hates himself for all the pain he's caused. John didn't ask for this. Who the hell would?

"Come on out, and I'll take a look at it. Please."

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. He feels tears pressing at the back of his eyes and a lump rising in his throat. But he stands anyway, wiping the majority of the blood away with some toilet paper and tossing it into the toilet, flushing it. He shakes the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt down before opening the bathroom door miserably. He doesn't look up at John, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Suddenly, he's caught in a crushing hug. He startles a bit, but hugs back weakly with arms that felt like they were numb and heavy. He stares into the empty space behind John, and he feels tears drip down his cheeks. It was fucking embarrassing.

John pulls back, still keeping his hands on Sherlock's upper arms, rubbing his thumbs on them soothingly.

"Alright, then. Show me, and I'll see if they need medical attention."

"Aren't _you_ the medical attention?" Sherlock replies bitterly, rolling up his left sleeve.

John scoffs quietly, just a ghost of a chuckle. He turns the detective arms over, and touches the cut slightly.

"It probably needs stitches, but I can do it here if you'd like."

Sherlock nods quickly, not loving the idea of being trundled to the ER once again. "Yes, here would be nice."

John looks up at Sherlock, dropping his arm. "Well, we best get to it."

John pulls a first aid kit out of the closet, where he kept his gauze and suture needles and the like. It's more like Sherlock's emergency kit than a first aid kit, and it's not the first time they've had to use it. 

"I really need to smuggle home some anesthetic, the gel stuff we have now only numbs the surface," John mumbles to himself.

"It's fine, John, I'll be alright," Sherlock says dismissively, waving his hand. They both knew the detective had an insanely high pain tolerance, but he knows his boyfriend still feels bad stitching him up with only topical anesthetic.

Sherlock sits at the kitchen tables and offers his arm. John swabs it with a antiseptic wipe, which stings a little. After that, John threads the suture needle and begins working. It only took three stitches to close, but Sherlock knew it was three more than John had hoped to stitch tonight.

John places a gauze pad on the wound and wraps it up. He sits still and stares at the dressed wound for a few moments, and for once Sherlock can't tell what he's thinking.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says eventually. He felt stupid and shameful and self-loathing. Can't he just go _one day_ without fucking up?

John's head lifts to look his boyfriend in the eyes. "Don't apologize, love. I know you're feeling just as badly, if not more so, than I am right now. We're doing this together, remember? I will never ask you to apologize for relapsing. Never. Recovery is a staircase, not an uphill slope. You'll fall down a few steps along the way, but you'll get up and move past it. Relapsing is not falling all the way down the hill every time."

Sherlock nods, his feelings of guilt just barely assuaged. 

John smiles thinly before taking Sherlock's hand. "Come back to bed, yeah? We can talk about this in the morning over a cuppa."

Sherlock nods again, standing with John and allowing him to lead him back to the bedroom and into bed. John takes him up in his arms and holding him tightly.

The detective feels numb, depressed, and hopeless, but the weight of John's arms grounded him. He didn't sleep at all that night, but John never let go of him, and that was enough for him.


End file.
